


The Song of the Dance

by epkitty



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Family Secrets, M/M, Secret Identity, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:03:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Galadriel wishes to bring an Old Tradition to light, not knowing that the task she sets Haldir will challenge his heart and soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Summons

Among the high Lorien mellyrn, hardly a chill was in the air, despite the deep winter that settled so firmly on the whole of Middle Earth. Up amid the wide branches of these ancient trees, in the Northern quadrant of the Elven city Caras Galadon, one cabin-like flet sat low in the limbs, away from the rest. Its walls were high and its ceiling firm. One window looked out to the north, and beneath this window sat a simple bed. And on the simple bed sat a far from simple elf.

Haldir was the March Captain of the northern border of Lorien, but Midwinter was a time of celebration, and he and his brothers had been invited back to the city to join the festivities. The bonfire had been exceptionally large this year, and Haldir had taken it upon himself to tend it rather than enjoy the revelry. His brothers and Lord Celeborn had half-heartedly tried to persuade him into the dances and the games, but he would not be swayed, and they knew that was simply his way and little could be done to change it.

But the opportunity had not been wasted. Haldir had found a low perch among the younger mellyrn to watch both the fire and the party’s attendants. He took great pride in his family and it was good to see Orophin chasing a pretty young wench from Mirkwood. Orophin, the golden-haired beauty, shared little of Haldir’s sobriety. And Haldir was glad of that.

Rumil also had been there. Newly out of his minority, the youngest of Feagul’s sons was seeing the world with new eyes. No longer a child, the festivities had been a revelation for him, and Haldir—along with Orophin—kept a close watch, to be sure.

The Lady Galadriel took much pleasure in the holidays, so in Lorien they were always a joy, and Haldir had smiled to see the Lady so happy and gay in the winter night, dancing and reveling with the others.

It was also on these rare occasions that Celeborn released his usual air of distant concern to participate in the ceremonies and other activities. He had worn less formal attire, and his hair had been loose… Haldir had long ago stopped trying to deceive himself. It was the Lord Celeborn he had watched most often and closest. It was the Lord Celeborn who held his heart.

But because he had so long attempted to hide his feelings even from himself, he could not pinpoint the moment or the day or the year that the revelation came fully upon him. When he was young, he had simply idolized the elven lord. Now, he loved him. Now, it seemed like he always had.

Fate had set him on this path, no matter how he battled it. This cycle of life seemed but a spiral of ever growing love.

And there was nothing to be done, for Celeborn was wed to Galadriel. Though Haldir was as close a friend as either high elf had and he knew that their passion had long faded to friendship. He knew also that every few years, they permitted themselves one indulgence. On Midsummer’s eve, one or the other would take a lover for the night.

If this was odd, it was not spoken of. If this was offensive, it was ignored. And still Haldir wondered at his majesties.

For over the centuries he had espied Galadriel’s lovers. Male, female, young, old, dark-haired or light… it never seemed to matter. But each one was an exceptional beauty of the heart: loving and good and kind.

But Haldir had also noticed Celeborn’s indulgences. Male. Always male. And this made him wonder, and this made him hope. For why should not the Lord one Midsummer’s eve ask Haldir to his bed for the night?

It was devoutly to be wished for.

But Haldir also knew, should this offer ever come, he would have to refuse. It would be far too tempting to believe the lie, and he feared the damage to his heart would be too great for one night of bodily pleasure.

And he vowed to himself, until the day this love faded, the only pleasure to be found would be a lonely one.

Until this love faded… would it ever?

He could not know.

So now, he lay on his simple bed in his simple flet at the northern edge of the city after Midwinter’s day, looking out northward to the darkening sky visible in patches through the golden leaves.

And he dreamed.

He dreamed, finding release the only way he knew how, by imagining a phantom lover with silver flaxen hair and strong, smooth hands; an elf Lord who would love him for more than a night, one who would always be with him, and whose love would match his own.

Haldir arched back, his head pressed to the pillow as he gripped himself in long, languid strokes, pale skin flushed with the heat of passion against the vibrant green quilt. The last of the sun’s light wound its way through the trees to indirectly illuminate golden hair and sweat-slicked skin.

A sudden gasp broke through the otherwise silent room. Haldir turned his head at the interruption, though did not cease his movements.

A moon-silver head of hair intruded through the entrance to his winter home, great dark eyes peering up at him with intrigued confusion.

Haldir’s voice was level as he spoke. “I distinctly recall teaching you how to announce your arrival at another’s home. You do not simply barge in without warning. Well, you’re here, you might as well come in.”

Unsure, Rumil finished his ascent, standing in silent awe of his eldest brother. “What… what are you doing?”

Haldir smiled; it was not a friendly expression. “Dear brother, are you so ignorant to the pleasures of the flesh?” he asked, continuing the steady motion of his hand, relaxed in immodest nudity as Rumil blushed an attractive pink where he stood shuffling his feet uncertainly.

The smile softened. “My but you *are* an innocent.” Remotely Haldir watched the young elf, flushing not only from embarrassment as he unblinkingly observed the scene before him.

Perhaps it would be prudent to stop, thought Haldir… but nay. Not because of his brother’s foolishness; there would be little enough privacy back on the march. Besides, Rumil had to learn of these things, one way or another. “Well then. Whatever your mission is, it will have to keep, for a moment.” And Haldir again turned to face the ceiling. He closed his eyes and saw his Lord’s face. Only the slightest moan betrayed him as he tipped over the familiar precipice, coming over his hand without any acceleration of his movements.

Eyes the color of twilight opened to take in the sight of poor Rumil, uncomfortably aroused where he stood, his own dark eyes large and round. “Well?” Haldir demanded impatiently.

“Huh?”

“Have you not brought some message for me?”

“Oh! Well yes, but… I don’t understand…”

Haldir suppressed a sigh. Gently he spoke, “Tell me. What don’t you comprehend?”

“What you were doing…”

Haldir frowned. Orophin’s education had been much simpler. Their mother, Feagul, had still dwelled in Arda then. All Haldir had had to do was point at the young maiden of the hour. “Have at it.” Those had been his words. And Orophin had turned out just fine, if you asked Haldir. A little loose with his affections, but that was quite all right. Their mother had been as well, (evinced by the fact that her three sons each had different fathers.)

But this was something altogether unique. He could see the hunger in Rumil’s wanting gaze. “Do you know what it is to make love?”

“Yes. You once told me.”

“Ah, so I did,” Haldir confirmed, recalling that rushed conversation. “‘This’ is what one does without a partner, to achieve only a quick release of pent up passions. It is not a sharing, but a wholly selfish indulgence. One you should not be afraid of, especially at your age.”

“But,” Rumil slowly explained, “I should like to share myself.”

“Then find a lover.”

Rumil nervously licked dry lips. “Can you not teach me?”

Haldir frowned. “Indeed I cannot. You are a brother to me, Rumil. Find one who desires you.”

“It is not unheard of for brothers to show each other the ways of the flesh.”

Haldir’s frozen expression of shock slowly grew to an impressed smirk. “You little minx,” he seductively intoned. “You’ve been listening to the eastern March again, haven’t you? You are not in the wrong,” he allowed. “And if my life had been different, I might accept your plea for… education. As it is, I have only one thing to teach you. Come here.”

Rumil bravely strode forward even as he trembled, kneeling beside the low bunk as his brother indicated with a pointing finger. Haldir smiled again, but this was a sweet expression rarely seen, filled with love. Rumil returned it selflessly in a grin of his own. Haldir caressed a blushing cheek and leaned forward, whispering, “Close your eyes.”

With a shudder, Rumil obeyed, dark lashes fluttering closed as he panted in shallow breaths.

The softest touch of lips fell on closed eyelids, and the hand never left his face. Kisses lightly fell on brow, temple, cheek, chin, and nose before Haldir finally met Rumil’s lips.

Frozen in lustful uncertainly, Rumil’s mouth opened when a tongue begged entrance and there was such tenderness in the gesture, such love, Rumil could barely tolerate the sweetening, deepening bond.

Still, Haldir retreated all too soon.

Panting and flushed and dazed, Rumil pleaded, “And you say that is… _all_ you can teach me?”

Rumbling laughter filled the small room, but it was not mocking. Haldir continued to chuckle as he turned, reaching for a damp cloth to clean the mess he’d made of himself. “I’m afraid that is the limit of my lessons.”

Rumil opened those gleaming eyes and saw a fleeting flicker of what could have been regret in his brother’s expression.

“You are sweet, Rumil, but I would not serve as a lover. The wheel of Fate has turned you to your adulthood. Your coming of age. And if you seek a lover, then the time is ripe to do so. But, you have just been gifted with the extent of my experience.”

The young elf could not help blurting out, “You mean you never… ?!”

Haldir looked away, though not with shame. “No, never. My teacher was willing, but I was not. I loved him as a mentor, not as a lover.”

“Who was this teacher who imparted so well his few lessons?”

“Glorfindel of Imladris. You know,” Haldir said conversationally as he rose to dress, “he will be here for the Midsummer festival. I shall introduce you. You would make a grand ‘student.’”

Rumil went red again, but it was apparent that he did not oppose the idea.

“Or,” Haldir suggested, “Since you seem so keen on the idea, try your charms on Orophin.”

Rumil looked up with a practically scandalized expression on delicate features as his cheeks reddened deeper.

Haldir shook his head at the confusing reaction and continued dressing as he let the subject go, inquiring, “Again I ask, what is the reason for your visit?”

Rumil jumped to his feet with alarm. “My goodness, you’ll be late!” he cried, reaching to help Haldir with his cloak. “We have tarried too long; I was told to ask you to dine with the Lord and Lady of the Wood this eve. You’ve but moments!”

Sighing, Haldir reached for his daggers. He was the only one to bear arms in Caras Galadon in times of peace, and he was fondly considered paranoid to some extent by many of the city’s residents for it. Sheathing the weapons, he turned to exit the talan. “I shall be late then; there’s no use dwelling on what cannot be changed.”

Together, they descended from Haldir’s hut-like talan through the hole in its floor.

Landing soundlessly, Rumil said, “I must prepare for our return to the border on the morn.”

Haldir nodded. “I will see you and Orophin tomorrow, then, at dawn. Good eve, brother.” And with that, Haldir shot away in the fading light, south through the mellyrn to the heart of the city, where his love and his love’s wife would be waiting.

***

Haldir’s thoughts drifted as he ran, long lopes carrying him steadily southward. He might consider himself friend to both Lady and Lord, but he could not recall a single ‘dinner’ that was casual. They had dined over many subjects in his long life, and he wondered what the case could be this time. There were no troubles that he knew of, within or without the city, but every summons ignited a worry in him, recalling the few instances when dinner had merely been the excuse to impart to him bad news.

But then he calmed himself. Of course. It was the day after Midwinter, and if the Lord and Lady had any grand plans for the Midsummer festival, now would be the time to discuss them.

And Haldir already knew: the plans were indeed huge. In fact, this summer’s festival had been quite a few years in the planning already. Haldir had only had a small hand in the preparations thus far, preferring to keep to his duty on the border. But the great trust the Lord and Lady had in him was unspoken, and often times the most personal tasks that they could not attend themselves were trusted to Haldir of the March.

All the city knew this. And if they thought him paranoid and proud, they also knew him to be immensely loyal and trustworthy. He had delivered many a message in his life, and the elves of Lorien knew that his coming with tidings was never some small matter.

One message in particular he was accustomed to, and now was just the time for it to be delivered. Lord Celeborn would invite his lover to join him Midsummer’s eve. It had been many years since Haldir had been asked to attend this particular duty, so he would not be surprised if this evening Celeborn slipped a small scroll to him and whispered a name in his ear. Galadriel would do the same, but she had taken a lover only the year before, and Haldir doubted she would take another so quickly, though he had been known to be wrong on this count before.

Six months of courting for one night of pleasure might seem long to some races, but the elves respected each other too greatly to pressure anyone on so grand a matter, and Haldir often waited many months before a reply was sent from the lover in question. Sometimes it would be a refusal - for whatever reason - and the matter would be dropped for the season, or Haldir would be sent out again, but that was rarely the case.

He hated those damn courtship letters, fearing every year that he himself might be the target, of the Lord or his Lady. He would consider either to be a personal catastrophe.

But that had never been the case, and so long had he served them that he now doubted it ever would be.


	2. The Task

The palace consisted of a series of ascending telain and twining stairways among a dozen great mellyrn in the heart of the city. On the ground, amid grass and twig, was the welcoming hall, formed by great branches curving in arcs high overhead. Several workers scattered throughout, finishing the renovations they had labored over the past few years. Further on were the kitchens and other hidden rooms and servants’ quarters, and many elves were coming and going this time of day. A white stair led to the first level of talan, which held an open court with rarely used thrones for the Lady and Lord. Higher up were conference rooms and a careful series of twisting libraries. Higher still were the homes of several of Lorien’s counselors and advisors. Beyond that was a private dining area, and further up: the quarters of the Lord and Lady themselves.

Haldir reached the welcoming hall at a run. One of his lesser sentries witnessed his hurried entrance and smiled, merely pointing upward as if to say, 'They wait upon _your_ convenience.' Haldir glowered quite fiercely, setting the younger elf to cowering, before he took to the great stairs. Up and up he went, past the courts and meeting halls, past libraries and living quarters until he finally reached the entryway to a long talan. There were no railings on this level, and past the empty length of the room was a small table where sat Celeborn and Galadriel.

Haldir had halted at the door, silently watching as Lord Celeborn reclined in his chair in a rare instance of repose. After a moment of observation, Haldir shifted his stance, the swishing of garments announcing his presence. He only crossed the threshold when Celeborn looked up to bid him enter with a raised hand and friendly smile.

The old elf watched the march-warden stride across the room and upon reaching the table, bow low. “My Lord, my Lady, I apologize for my tardiness.”

“And you are excused,” Galadriel said, a twinkle in her eye, a smirk on fair lips, sending Haldir to nervous shudders as he wondered if she could see just what had been keeping him. “Now, Haldir of the March, friend and trusted servant, join us.”

Haldir inclined his head, pulling out a finely carved chair to sit across from the pair, and fill his plate.

***

The light fare was delicious, and filling to elven stomachs. They dined on the freshest produce from the Lady’s gardens and bread hot from the ovens, and sipped the finest wine, intermingled with light conversation about the previous day’s festival.

But as the dinner came to an end and the three elves finished off a sweet pudding, Galadriel finally got down to the root of his invitation. “Tell me Haldir, what do you know of our upcoming festival of Byeltinyeh?”

Glad to be done with the courtesies, the elf set his goblet aside. “I know that this year’s Midsummer festival has been planned with utmost care and attention to detail. The Lord of Imladris and his family, along with about half his household will attend, as will a contingent of elves from Mirkwood, though I understand Thranduil the King is not… inclined to come himself.”

“Aye, you have it correctly,” Celeborn nodded, pushing away his own chalice. “And we are determined to make this celebration unlike any occasion Arda has yet known.”

A small smile tipped Haldir’s lips in his usual smirk. “This I have seen. The welcoming hall has undergone some great renovations these past years. Now I know why: the hall has become a dance floor, and the bonfire pit enlarged, yes? The weavers have been busy… do they then prepare decorative tapestries and elegant costumes for these nights of feasting? And I couldn’t help but notice an increase in attention to the fruit trees this year, for the finest food imaginable I presume, and I know your employ of staff in the winery has increased as well. All this for three nights of celebration?”

“You’ve hit the mark every time,” Celeborn confirmed, impressed at Haldir’s deductions. He grinned at Haldir’s perception and the warden returned the expression, though quickly turned away again.

“But we want this to be more than a ritual observation, more than a gathering of friends,” Galadriel coolly explained. “This shall be an occasion no one will ever forget, a chance to join most deeply our bodies to our souls in the Great Feast of Byeltinyeh.”

“To do this,” Celeborn continued, “My Lady has thought to resurrect an old custom, a tradition that I fear may have been lost through the ages in fear and doubt.”

When the conversation lapsed, Haldir asked, “And what is this ancient secret you speak of?”

Galadriel leaned forward in her seat, a light of intrigue and happy anticipation in her endless eyes. Her voice was secretive indeed and low as she spoke, “Have you ever heard of The Dance?”

Frozen in uncertain shock for a moment, Haldir’s face then lit up in a disbelieving grin. “The Dance?” he asked, laughing, “But that is just a myth!” Observing Celeborn’s sober expression and Galadriel’s intensely serious one, Haldir’s grin faded as his eyes flicked back and forth between the two ancients. “…Isn’t it?”

The powerful elves shared a look before Galadriel answered. “The Dance,” she explained, “Is an ancient tradition. No one can tell of its origins or even how it ever came to be or why. Also, few are gifted with the ability to perform this feat of magic, even if they have the knowledge. For nearly two ages of this world, The Dance was considered a profane offense, punishable by exile. At the dawning of the third age, this ban was lifted, but the deed itself is still considered forbidden. None would dare to do this thing on their own. But the world is a free place where all aspects of ourselves should be embraced. We want to celebrate that.”

As she spoke, Haldir’s mind had calmed, and it seemed that ageless voice called forth images of times long past, deeds long misunderstood, and hope for a new acceptance - a new freedom among the firstborn. For a moment, the March Warden seemed lost to memories that were not his until he realized the voice had ceased, and silence reigned in the open room among the high trees.

He hadn’t realized his eyes were closed until he opened them, seeing his Lady’s hopeful face, pale and new and beautiful before him. Still, he doubted. “Let’s say you are right,” he began for the sake of argument. “Why are you telling me?”

Celeborn was the one to answer, his deep tenor soothing and his eyes kind. “Besides my Lady and myself, you are the only one we trust to do this thing.”

A raised eyebrow questioned this trust.

Celeborn sighed wearily. “Our many counselors and advisors are good and honest elves, but they are simply too…”

“Stuck in their ways,” Haldir said bluntly. “They would not approve the wisdom of your ambition, nor willingly pursue it.”

The Lord and Lady shared a knowing smile. They had chosen Haldir for a reason.

“So,” he continued, “when they do not serve your needs, you turn to the ever reliable March Wardens. And yet,” Haldir leaned back, tipping on the legs of his chair as he thought a moment. “The eastern March Captain… Annaglar would take up your cause enthusiastically, but his tendency for talk is far too great a risk, as I imagine you’d rather retain SOME air of mystery regarding the eve’s entertainment. On the other hand, Cudae, Captain of the southern March and the son of a Lord, would speak not a whisper of your plots, yet blushes at the mention of courtship; he is far too old fashioned. And Din-alqua of the west, bless her heart, is simply too young for whatever it is you have in mind. So, you turn to Haldir, ever subtle in his unending loyalty,” he sighed at his almost humorous though highly accurate description of himself, “to… do what, exactly?”

“To go out into our lands,” Celeborn decreed. “There must be someone in Lorien who knows the art. We are certain, if there is, you will find him or her. Besides, any simple sentry sent on such a mission would probably not glean the truth, and you are right: people here know and respect you, Haldir. They have faith in your honesty and,” he grinned, “subtlety. As do we. That is why we ask this of you; that is why we charge you with this task. Short of Galadriel or myself going out to do this same thing, there is no other way.”

Haldir nodded his agreement. “And you’ve not the time to pursue this matter; I understand. Very well,” he said, standing from the table. “A most… unusual request. But if there is any in our wood who knows the Art of The Dance, I will find them.”

“Excellent,” Celeborn said, rising to dismiss the guardian. “You have half a year.”


	3. The Search

Two sentries of the northern border sat together on a large boulder beneath Haldir’s city flet.

“Do you think he’s hung-over?”

“Haldir?” Orophin exclaimed. “Never. He’s far too responsible to have been drinking.”

“He’s never been this late before,” Rumil pointed out, watching the change of light in the forest as the sun cleared the unseen horizon.

“He’s never been late at all,” the other agreed.

“I am not late. I am simply not early.”

The brothers jumped in surprise, turning to stand in awe of their elder sibling.

“For shame,” Haldir criticized. “You return to the borders for watch-duty in a day but could not even hear my obvious approach? You are out of practice.”

Rumil began his argument. “We simply did not expect-”

“A Guardian must always expect. Enemies. Deception. Trespassers. Danger. There is no excuse for your slip. Either of you.”

The sentries bowed their heads at the reproach.

When Orophin looked up again, worry settled on his features. “Where are your things, Haldir?”

Seeing that he was indeed without his longbow, Rumil adopted his brother’s expression. “Do you not return to the border with us?”

Haldir shook his head, handing Orophin a scroll. “Nay I do not. Give that letter to First Lieutenant Thinthoron; he will stay on as your Captain this season as the Lord and Lady demand my services elsewhere. I shall see you at Midsummer.”

When they made no reply, Haldir waved at them. “Off with you, now. Or else you will be late!”

So, the brothers had no choice but to go their way, leaving a mystery behind with only a long march ahead.

***

After packing himself a few loaves of lembas, Haldir set off northward himself, in a slightly more western direction than his brothers had taken.

A swift jog cleared his mind and a day of such travel brought him to his destination by dusk. Here, near the northwestern edge of Lorien, the trees were shorter but grew closer together. A darkness hung here unlike the normal light of Lorien, though it was not oppressive, and Haldir smiled to hear the wind setting a thousand chimes to tinkling where they hung in copper and bamboo rods from the highest branches in the distance. It created a calming sort of music and he remembered it well from his childhood.

He walked silently within this dark-seeming forest, stopping at a certain point, a border undefined by any physical means. He peered through the trees, but the many low leaves obscured his vision and he could make out no disturbance in the oldest growth of Lorien.

Tipping his head to the breeze, he discerned through the sound of wind-rustled branches and far away chimes the distant tone of a light-hearted humming. He grinned.

“Old witch! Old witch! Let me come in!” he called out in a clear, ringing voice.

The far-off singing ceased and within moments, a figure swathed in green silks came sweeping through the trees. Long white hair fell past a humped shoulder to trail close to the forest floor. Great green eyes sparkled at the sight of him and a smile lit the ancient face. “Haldir, dearheart, it is you!” Arms opened to accept him in a warm embrace, heartily returned by the March Warden.

“Aye, Iarwen,” he sighed, holding her close. He smiled: she smelled the same as she had years ago, of hearthsmoke, ainereg, tea, and magic.

“You have been away too long,” she scolded kindly, stepping back to look at him, though both had remained the same over the course of time. His stately features were unchanged, though the deep violet eyes held, perhaps, a bit more wisdom. And she still hunched under the weight of a disfigured shoulder, but the clear beauty of her lined face was untouched by time. She sighed with a false air of indignation. “What do you need this time?”

When he only grinned, she laughed, a high warbling music to his ears. “Oh but for shame, it seems I must mind my manners after all: come in, come in!”

***

She was called Iarwen, Old Maiden, and her true name was long forgotten. She was a sort of beautiful old crone who concealed herself at this the far northwestern corner of Lorien, and few dared to seek her out, despite her age and wisdom. She had been old when Galadriel was a babe. She could remember the time before time. But Haldir knew her well.

Like one of the race of Men, she dwelt in a low cottage on the ground, situated in a clearing surrounded by oaks and rowans and birch trees. From the ground beside the garden, a clear pool burbled up, winding in a small stream away to the west.

Haldir was guided within the homely hut lit by the happy yellow light of many candles and a small hearth fire. It was full of strange smelling herbs and old scrolls, and the scent of magic filled the air. A huge pale pink crystal, flat and reflective, stood in one corner. Haldir knew it was a diviner’s tool, but to him it seemed only a huge mirror. Plenty of dead things hung from the ceiling, things which had once been plants or birds. Crockery and ironware, tools of kitchen and hearth, lay sprawled about on sturdy tables scarred with age. Books - held together more with magic than by their bindings - lay along shelves beside hundreds of clear glass and crystal vials full of what he suspected were powerful potions and bits of bugs and other creepy crawlies. Iarwen moved about the place blending in so well with her surroundings. Both she and her home were marked by age but touched with a deep beauty.

Haldir felt it was like coming home, and when she handed to him a deep purple elixir that smelled of elderberry, he drank it without question, the sweet brew calming him into a welcome relaxation. “I have stayed away too long,” he mourned. “Your mothering touch is a welcome one, Iarwen; I have missed you.”

Sitting in ancient oaken chairs before the hearth, she eyed him curiously. “And I you. But we cannot always dote on each other; your duty lies not with me, Haldir. I am merely grateful for your company whenever it can be had,” she told him truthfully. “But I sense this visit is not for mere leisure and repose.”

Haldir sadly shook his head. “I come on a mission from the Lord and Lady.”

“My, my,” she marveled, “You have come up in the world. And here I’d thought the good Lady had forgotten me.”

“They did not send me to you,” he clarified, “but you are the only one I know who can help me.”

Iarwen smiled her mysterious smile. Haldir sighed, knowing he’d be seeing much more of that look if she had anything to say about it. “Enough with the mysteries, Dir. What do you seek?”

Haldir let out a hesitant puff of breath. Setting aside the empty cup, he leaned forward with the importance of his mission shining in the open depths of his eyes. “I seek one who can perform The Dance.”

Iarwen’s only response to this was a raised brow.

“To perform on the night of Byeltinyeh. Our Lady desires it.”

“Our Lady is good and wise,” was the immediate non-answer.

“Indeed,” he said, waiting for her to proceed.

Again, Iarwen smiled. “And why do you come to me?”

“Do not ask questions you already know the answer to, old witch,” he lightly rebuked her. “You are a mistress of the Old Traditions. You are the _only_ one I know with any of the Old Knowledge, if Galadriel does not know. And she has told me herself that she does not.” Haldir frowned now as he spoke. “If you – you who know ancient secrets and brew forbidden potions, you who helped to teach and raise me as your own, you who know the mysteries of The Dance – if you cannot tell me who can do this thing, then I am at a loss.”

Reading the quiet trouble in his turbulent eyes, Iarwen shifted from her seat, coming to kneel before him and take his strong hands in her own. “Haldir, dearheart, you and I both know I’ve the knowledge but not the skill. Feagul, your most beautiful mother, left these shores long ago. And I have only ever had one student, one pupil bright and brave and talented enough to do this.”

For a halting moment, silence reigned as Haldir smiled grimly. “Then it is as I feared.”

***

When the old witch failed him, Haldir covered all the land of Lorien, seeking out the lonely, the wise, the old. He sought the families who followed the oldest traditions, the scholars who studied the oldest scripts, and the eldest among elves who remembered back to a time when such things had not been forbidden.

But this search was fruitless.

***

Five months after the Winter Feast, Haldir received another summons. The message delivered to his home instructed him to bring with him The Dancer in three days’ time to meet with the Lord and Lady.

***

So it was a fortnight before the Midsummer Festival when he again turned up on the borders to Iarwen’s ancient home, a proud but forlorn form on her ancient doorstep.

“I have a favor to ask…”


	4. The Report

Haldir led the way up the winding flat stairway past the welcoming hall to the throne room. There were no attendants nor counselors, no advisors nor other hangers-on, only Celeborn and Galadriel waiting with remote patience and cool welcome. For this privacy, Haldir was eternally grateful. He approached to bow before his king and queen, for this is what they were to him even if they claimed no such titles. “My Lord. My Lady.”

“Haldir of the Guard,” Celeborn greeted him. Haldir could see curiosity in those silver eyes, for he had apparently disobeyed a direct order, an order to present The Dancer. There was no offense or anger, but he could see they were eager for news. “You were sent on a mission by me,” the Lord proceeded, ever kind and kingly, though Haldir could see also amusement in the elf’s fair face. “In five months, what have you learned?”

Haldir’s grin was self-deprecating and rather dismal. “I have learned that very few have the same faith that you do. Fewer could tell me of The Dance at all. And in all your lands, I have found but one elf capable of the Art itself.”

When Haldir halted altogether, Celeborn leaned forward in anticipation, almost on the verge of reprimanding his March Captain. “And you were instructed to escort The Dancer hither, were you not?”

“I was,” Haldir conceded. “But in my research I have uncovered much about The Lost Ways. The tradition of The Dance is accompanied by many small rituals and customs that have been buried in the past, and one of its most important aspects is the Mystery that surrounds it. In long ages past, beyond my reckoning, when Old was new and when the elder among us were still young, a Dancer was more than entertainment or mere profession. A Dancer was eroticism and joy and above all, Mystery. Thus, I have brought with me not The Dancer himself, but his Attendant. If you will permit it, she will speak to you privately about this matter, for I can tell you no more.”

As Haldir spoke, Celeborn listened with wide-eyed fascination. Galadriel remained distant as she observed both what Haldir said and what he did not say. She also watched Celeborn’s reaction.

And when her husband turned to her in silent inquiry, she said, “Let it be done.”

Haldir stepped aside, bowing as a stooped form in a long black cloak glided into the room.

The stranger also bowed before thin white arms reached up to pull back her hood.

As one, Galadriel and Celeborn rose from their thrones and reverently ducked their heads in courtesy to one older than they. The Lady spoke. “Welcome, Iarwen, to Caras Galadon. It seems that my wisdom of ages is plagued also with forgetfulness, for I do not see how I could have neglected your aid in this matter. Haldir was wise to seek you out.” Turning to the one in question, she ordered, “You may leave us.”

Again did Haldir make his obeisance before leaving as silently as he had come.

Alone with the ancient crone, Celeborn watched as Galadriel descended the steps to confront the Old One. Iarwen smiled. “You have not grown forgetful, but prideful,” she admonished the Lady of the Golden Wood. “But it is a pride worthy of a seer such as yourself. I think it is better that I am forgotten in these days of peace, and minimally feared by my fellows. I should hate to be bothered every day of the year by distraught elves who think to solve all their problems with a potion or a spell.”

Galadriel saw the humor, the eternal amusement in that wise old face, and smiled with relief. “They are not so bothersome as all that,” the Lady offered.

“No indeed, they respect you far too much to be loitering about your mirror and begging favor where they are not wanted. But I have not come to speak of your magic.”

“You have come on behalf of my request to give the gift of The Dance to the elves of Arda,” Galadriel wondered, still amazed that she had all but dismissed this old elf whose age was unknown, whose knowledge was boundless.

“I have.”

“Will you come above?” Celeborn asked.

“It would be best,” Iarwen agreed. “The less chance of being overheard, the better, for the Mysteries are powerful and sacred.”

So, the three elves climbed up to the highest flet where Galadriel’s private quarters lay high above the rest of the city. They sat themselves round a cozy table and Celeborn prepared the tea, listening to the ladies speak.

“As a rule, I would tell only what you need to know,” said Iarwen. “But I trust you, my good Lady, my kind Lord. So I will tell you more,” she promised with that intriguing grin.

The Lord returned with the tea to join them, and Celeborn and Galadriel listened in silent awe, the innocence and wonder in their faces reminiscent of children gathered round to hear a new tale of adventure, and they fell into the story that Iarwen wove with her ancient tales.

“You know of the Themes that surrounded our creation, Songs that had more than melody and harmony, Songs that took form and are weaved into the very fiber of our bodies and the essence of our souls. When the firstborn came into existence, they were close to these songs, and sang them over and over, though they ever changed and grew. And though time passes slowly for us, it does pass. And though we are brave and free, even elves are plagued by doubt and fear. And for this reason, many traditions have been lost to us.

“The Dance was a revered Act. It was practiced rarely and only in times of celebration. The Dance was an Art of expression. And this is how it works: The Dancer summons within himself the essence of those ancient melodies, harmonies, and variations. He employs movement, rhythm, song to express the primal urges within us all, the lust and passion and also the most driving force in each of us, not to procreate but to share ourselves with another. The Dance is not about release or sex itself, but about making connections. Any who witness The Dance are caught in its magic – its Song – and as physical beings we are overwhelmed by the spiritual nature of this act that words cannot describe. It connects the body to the soul. It connects the heart to the mind. And it drives us to connect our individual self to another.

“And it is dangerous; it is perilous, this must be understood. For the union that The Dance drives us to make is not only physical, but also spiritual. Any bonds formed as a result of The Dance are in some way permanent, and go beyond pleasure and love.

“Yes, that is why it was feared, that is why it was banned. That is why this Old Knowledge has been lost. But if you think today’s people are ready to accept it without fear, to turn to each other in joy and open acceptance, then I will help to bring this ancient Art back.”

Galadriel nodded and finally spoke. “I am ready. They are ready. I have read it in their hearts.”

Iarwen nodded. “Then this is what shall happen…”


	5. The Plan

For two weeks Haldir had traveled between the bustling city and Iarwen’s isolated home, relaying news and meeting guests and coming back to revel in the peace and quietude to be found in the ancient forest, and comforted by his old teacher. The sun was setting on the eve before Midsummer’s Eve as he trotted uninvited past the border to her land and to the cottage.

Iarwen looked up from a steaming iron pot as he entered. “Welcome back. Have a seat with me by the hearth, Haldir, and tell me your news.”

He nodded wordlessly, accepted a cup of the hot brew after hanging up his cloak, and sat on one of those huge solid oak chairs before the fire. Iarwen soon joined him, an ancient pipe dangling from thin lips. A sweet smelling herb burned in its bowl, wafting through the air.

Haldir curiously wrinkled his nose, sniffing. He could smell ainereg, but also something else. “What is that?”

“Ainereg.”

“Isn’t that what they burn in sickrooms?” he inquired.

Iarwen grinned that calculating smile of hers. “Mmm, yes. It soothes, relaxes…”

“Kills pain,” Haldir finished.

“Yes. But there’s also a bit of dinbrethil,” she admitted.

Haldir shook his head. “I worry about you: be careful with that weed, Iarwen.”

She waved off his concern about the hallucinogenic plant and she smoked while he sipped his drink in silence before she asked, “Well? Tell me of the first night’s proceedings!”

Haldir smiled distantly. It had been the first night of Festival, and it had been an affair to remember. “Yesterday was a fiasco to be sure. The Lord and Lady have surpassed all expectations. Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrian along with their children are simply delighted with everything, but the host from Mirkwood seemed quite overwhelmed.”

“Thranduil did not attend, I know. Who on Middle Earth did he send in his stead?”

Haldir grinned mischievously. “He sent his youngest son.”

“Oh?” she asked with a mouthful of smoke.

“Yes indeed. Prince Legolas is barely older than Rumil, and he has never been to the Wood before, nor met our Lord and Lady. It was quite amusing to watch him wander about open-mouthed at everything. I do believe the elves of Lorien and Imladris are rather more relaxed than those of the north, and he blushed at half the entertainment, as did most of his kith and kin. But really, everyone is having a grand time.”

“Those of Imladris,” she asked, “Is Glorfindel among them? I do miss him so…”

“Oh yes,” Haldir’s grin widened. “Glorfindel is there. I was very glad to see him; we spent some time together today. I introduced him to Rumil.” By now, his grin was maniacal.

Iarwen leant forward in her excitement. “Do tell!”

Haldir laughed. “I had told Glorfindel of Rumil’s sudden interest in the matters of love, as well as his reluctance. This is what transpired: I pulled Rumil from whatever corner he was hiding in and took him straight to Glorfindel, waiting in all his glory in the Midsummer candle grove - to better highlight his features, you understand. ‘Glorfindel, this is Rumil,’ was my introduction, upon which the old elf said nothing but simply smiled and promptly pulled my brother into a crushing embrace, kissing him full on the lips!” The two elves shared in a bout of laughter. “They have not been parted since! Though Rumil was red as a beet, I believe he’s more than happy with the situation.” He did not add to his story the image burned into his mind of Orophin hanging like a curious vulture from a low talan, spying on this exchange with fearful disapproval.

“Oh splendid!” Iarwen pronounced. “It seems his wheel has turned! I do wish I’d the energy to attend, but our march to the city tomorrow will wear me down enough. What is happening today?”

“Well, yesterday was a time of introductions, meetings new and old. It was a relaxed environment, people going from dinner to dance to games. I don’t truly know of everything that is happening tonight, but I’ve had it from the seneschal that dinner is less formal, people eating what and when they please, and etcetera. But there is much more dancing and singing tonight; and, I believe, more wine.”

“Then tomorrow is Byeltinyeh,” Iarwen said with a smoky sigh. “It has been so long since I’ve seen a festival… And I suppose everyone knows of The Dance?”

“Aye,” he agreed, smiling no more. “It is only spoken of in whispers. People still fear the Old Ways…”

“And?”

“And they are intent on witnessing it.” Again he let out a heavy breath of air. “Perhaps fear is too strong a word. I trust in Galadriel; if she says that the elves of Arda are ready for this, then I believe her, but still they doubt. They do not understand.”

“But they will.”

“Aye,” he murmured. “They will.”

Iarwen sensed his melancholy. Abruptly, she asked, “If you do not want to perform The Dance, Haldir, why did you agree to do so?”

His turbulent violet eyes looked away from the fire to meet her gaze. “Because my Lady asked it.”

Iarwen nodded in sober understanding. “And you feel you’ve a duty.”

“I have,” he assented. He rose from the chair to pace slowly along the stone hearth before the fire. “My mother would have wished it. She was an excellent Dancer.”

“I wish I could have seen her Dance.”

Haldir nodded absently. “You were right, Iarwen. It is a gift. It is in the blood… You know, before she left, she said that neither of my brothers had the ability. I never understood how she could know that…”

“Your mother saw many things.”

“Perhaps she did.” He sat again, the fatigue and worry finally visible in his slumping form and in his tired eyes. “I miss her, Iarwen. I do not understand why she went away…”

“The time comes soon when all elves will follow her path. To the Sea. To the West. You will see Feagul again.”

“I will not,” Haldir quietly denied.

Shocked, Iarwen set aside the pipe and knelt before him, taking his hands and peering with searching worry into his solemn eyes. “What do you mean?” she asked in slow, quiet words.

“I did not need you to tell me the future of our people. The elves will leave Middle Earth. I’ve always known this.” He laughed grimly to himself. “Perhaps I’ve a touch of foresight after all. But I will not go with them. I am connected to this Earth, Iarwen. I am connected to it just as I am bound to the ancient Song of The Dance. I will not die, but neither will I leave.”

Terrified at the prospect, Iarwen breathed out a whisper, “But how do you know this?”

Haldir shrugged helplessly, and she saw in him a shadow of the sweet child he had been an age ago. “I just know.”

***

The next day, Haldir woke long before the sun. He bathed in the stream outside, and Iarwen could literally see how he mentally prepared himself for that night’s performance. Any concerns, any normal worries or fears or distractions were shed like an old skin. There appeared about him a sudden center of calm, of resolute focus; a single-minded motivation overtook all else.

He was withdrawn and quiet, though not sullen, and there was an unaccustomed air of power about him when he re-entered the sloping hut in a woolly green dressing robe. Silently, he moved to the well-used kitchen area beside the hearth to prepare a special, secret tea. He sat on the stone floor as he drank, oblivious to Iarwen patiently watching him where she sat in her chair. She was surprised when he suddenly spoke. “You know, the costume my mother made faded to tatters years ago. There is little to be done to dispel the destruction of time,” he quietly mourned.

“Fear not,” she answered. “I have already thought of this.” She stood and retrieved a long wooden box from her room. She joined Haldir on the hearth and set this between them. Opening the hinged lid, she withdrew a shimmering, pale fabric that moved like quicksilver flowing in her hands. “Here now, what do you think?”

Haldir’s jaw dropped and his clay mug was distractedly set aside as he reached out to gingerly clasp the fragile silk between two archer’s fingers with an almost horrified expression on his regal face. “…???… Is it not a bit… risqué?” he finally asked of the brief, transparent cloth.

“Is it not supposed to be?” shot back the answer.

“Well,” he finally conceded, holding the costume up to the fire’s light. “It will leave very little to the imagination.”

***

Within the privacy of his room - the only guest room but also the only place that truly felt like home - he removed his robe and closed his mind, focusing and training his thoughts to the task at hand. He unconsciously hummed an echo of The Dance as he continued his preparations.

A fine-toothed wooden comb blessed with lavender oil tamed his hair into a waterfall of straight flaxen locks shimmering alternately gold and silver in the light. When that was done he reached for a small potion bottle. The musk was an ancient aphrodisiac, but an essential tradition. Using a sort of primitive mister, he applied the perfume in a spray, coating his skin sparingly and careful to keep it out of his face, but he bent over and swished his hair about as he liberally doused his head in the fast-drying liquid. He straightened and set the bottle aside distastefully; the stuff would probably stay in his hair for days…

Next, he reached for a golden powder. Using a brush of bound feathers, he coated his entire body until he shimmered like some ancient god in the candlelight. The golden hue highlighted his skin, seeming to make him glow, and it softened the harsher shadows and angles of his finely toned form.

It was with a quiet anger that he marched to the box Iarwen had bestowed upon him, pulling out three pieces of cloth. It really was most undignified, and he knew Iarwen had not woven such a skimpy thing out of spite; it was merely her idea of humor. The loincloth was not purple, but a dark plum, almost black, and it seemed to weigh nothing in his hands as he _very_ carefully situated it about himself before tying the knots harshly in the silken fabric, muttering about slippy, slidey women’s clothes. He looked down at himself regretfully. It covered the important bits. Mostly.

Eagerly did he pull out the pants, but the translucent material wouldn’t hide a thing. He held the trousers to the light; the garment was actually quite fine, and he dreaded to think what its expense might be. The pale lavender gleamed silver and whispered over his skin like a breath of air. Nervously did he clothe himself, but was faintly pleased with the final result once he’d tied the all the cords and straightened the dangling silver trimming.

They hung dangerously low on his hips, just over the flimsy satin loincloth. Slit down either side in some nefarious fashion no doubt meant to titillate, the misty fabric gathered at his knees and again at his ankles with silver ties, creating flowing waves that would accent his movements. Silver embroidery accented the creation in swirling exotic patterns along the hemlines and silver tassels hung from his waist and knees in different thicknesses and lengths, giving the costume a bit more character. On many of the tassels hung the traditional brass bells: very small, but very loud and beautiful when under the command of a capable Dancer. Triple bands of these brass bells circled his ankles, and a strap of leather on each foot connected this ancient jewelry to the brass bell at each large toe.

Returning to the engraved box worn with age, Haldir retrieved the traditional Decoration. There was a ring for each finger, and as he slipped them on, he marveled at the perfect fit, and the tiny stone settings and their fine craftsmanship. Brass wrist cuffs there were also - which he considered a mockery of a warrior’s bracers - but he put them on. Brass armbands that hugged his biceps were next. Finally, he pulled out a fine circlet of mithril. He smiled. The filigree headpiece had been his mother’s and he slowly placed this on his head with reverence. It formed a downward point at his brow and hanging from that point was a single pearl-drop diamond.

Beside the last article of clothing was a small velvet bag drawn closed with a silk cord. He opened this indigo pouch and poured into his hand a number of fine jewels. Most were quite small, but there was an exceptionally large blue stone. He might have thought it a sapphire if not for its pale hue, paler than clear winter skies. He carried these over to the dresser where several pots and jars of powders and inks were laid out. He set aside the smaller stones, taking the large jewel and coating one side with a clear paste. He affixed the stone to his navel, holding it in position as the glue quickly dried.

The same paste was applied to the other jewels, which were carefully aligned along his hipbones and above his brows to his temples with the aid of a faded mirror over the dresser.

When this was done, he stood before the poor copper mirror, looking balefully at the performer’s make-up. It had been many years since he’d attempted the paint, but his hand was steady as he reached for the finest brush. Dipping it into the charcoal black ink, he outlined his eyes, drawing out the features and making them seem much larger than they were. A treacherously dark violet was painted onto the delicate skin of his lids. A lighter purple was tinted above that and he then painted the black ink into thin, arching eyebrows. A subtle rouge accented his fine cheekbones and finally, he painted his lips a vicious, bruised red. A light, transparent powder was dusted over his face, setting the paint so that it would not smear or run.

Lastly, he took up the final piece of clothing. This small veil was of the same material as the pantaloons, silvery lavender and perfectly transparent. More silver tassels and embroidery lined the top and bottom and with the utmost care he covered his nose and mouth, the fine silver cord winding over his ears and tying beneath the waves of hair.

He glowered to himself as he looked down, thinking this was probably just about the bravest, most humiliating thing he’d ever agreed to.

***

Stepping out from the room, he moved soundlessly despite the bells, coming to stand before the fire.

Sensing his presence, Iarwen looked up from some embroidery. Her jaw dropped.

Arms crossed, he glared balefully down at her. “What?”

Iarwen swallowed reflexively as she stared at the vision before her. “You will be rousing more than bodies tonight, Dir,” she said. “I foresee several broken hearts if you are not careful.”

Haldir lightened at her response, thinking he didn’t look so dreadful after all. His familiar sneering smile appeared behind the veil. “Let’s hope it does not come to that. …Why _do_ you keep staring so?” he asked of Iarwen, still motionless and wide-eyed.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked. “Can you not see yourself, Haldir?”

“No. I cannot. Or I do not see what you see.” Curious, he asked, “What am I to your eyes?”

With this, Iarwen stood and took his hand, leading him over to the pale crystal looking glass that stretched up from the floor.

Haldir, too, gulped rather audibly at the sight of his golden form so revealed. “ _Very_ little to the imagination,” he muttered, seeing how firm muscles flexed minutely under pale golden skin, the veil adding to the mystery of his presence. Indeed, if he did not know himself so well, he would not recognize the reflection. “Will anyone even know me for Haldir the March Warden?”

“I doubt it. You are, for the night, only The Dancer. The Artist. And you will charm them all.” Standing beside him, gazing at that exotic reflection, she revealed, “Sex personified. That is what you are to my eyes. And The Dance will rouse every watcher to previously unknown heights.”

With difficulty, Iarwen pulled herself away, letting that remark sink in. She turned to the mantelpiece before returning to Haldir’s side.

Looking down, he saw a pair of gold hoops in Iarwen’s white hand.

“They were your mother’s,” she softly explained. “I was not sure…”

“Yes,” Haldir said firmly, watching with detachment as Iarwen cleansed the small earrings and swabbed the same cleanser on the lower lobes of his ears.

Without ceremony, she reached up and quickly drove the small charms through his flesh, one after the other. There was hardly a drop of blood spilt and only a quick prick of pain that faded to a heating ache.

“Thank you,” he said stoically as they again turned to look in the mirror.

Unnerved at the appraising look she gave him, Haldir glared at her reflection only to be taken aback when she grinned, cat-like, at him. “I stare for a different reason this time,” she told him. “Haldir… never in a million years would I have guessed you wore a nipple ring,” she said, pointing to the gold hoop that decorated his chest over his heart.

Haldir smiled fondly. “My mother gave it to me when I came into my majority. She said it was tradition. She said it was the token of a true Dancer.”

“In all my studies, I’ve never heard that,” Iarwen marveled. “Perhaps it truly is a Lost Tradition.” She smiled again, an expression of joy and delight. “I see your wheel is turning, Haldir. Follow it well.”

***

Before first light, two cloaked figures - one in black; the other, grey - made their way from the small hut. All day they marched south, sometimes walking, at others running on the smooth sward, and as the last light of the sun faded, they reached the green walls of Caras Galadon.


	6. The Dance

Swiftly, they jogged along the white stone road to the city gate on the southwest side.

Night had fallen when they reached the white bridge, the pair stopping to gaze upward into the trees that seemed alive with the light of ten thousand lanterns. A rushing joyful music reached their ears where they stood.

Iarwen turned to Haldir and reached out to adjust his cowl. She lowered the hood of the cloak to cover his face and nothing could be seen of him, neither what he wore nor who he was. “Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Are you nervous?”

Truthfully, he answered, “I am not.”

“Then let us go.”

Haldir followed now as she led the way over the bridge to the gates where they stood open in this era of peace. The few guards there were vigilant, but this pair was expected, and they passed with welcome and the guards were left behind, plagued with an air of Mystery.

They continued down the empty lane but turned off the main path before the shimmering fountain beyond which the revelry began.

They moved as shadows on the fringes of the excitement, Iarwen enjoying the delights she had not witnessed in countless decades while Haldir kept distant watch over his brothers.

Sitting together on a low flet, the caped figures observed the activities in the welcoming hall where the traditional dance contest was held, storytellers competed, an illusionist performed, and many other amusements were beheld.

Haldir closed his eyes when a brazen horn was blown, shrill and loud, that reverberated among the trees. It marked the mid of night.

At its call, the elves began to drift off, often in pairs. The party grew more intimate as it grew smaller, and the last of the elves – still a great number – began to settle into their seats around the open hall. When Celeborn and Galadriel seated themselves on their cushioned chairs at the hall’s end, the others followed suit: Elrond and Celebrian taking their places of honor to the right and Legolas on the left. Haldir watched familiar faces as everyone followed the silent command. Orophin sat alone, distant and sullenly watchful. Rumil and Glorfindel snuggled together at the foot of a mallorn. Haldir frowned. He’d warned his brothers that they ought to skip the last performance of the night, but they had heard of the Old Way that would be revealed and were, apparently, determined to attend. Haldir chose not to think on Orophin’s uncharacteristic actions; there was more to concern him at the moment.

He fearfully wondered if they would recognize him. He wondered the same of Glorfindel, and of Celeborn and Galadriel, for those three he had known most all his life. He continued to watch as Elrond’s twin sons stood respectfully behind their father, and as Erestor shooed the young Lady Arwen off to bed with her nurse. She was but fifty-nine years old, far too innocent for what was in store this evening. Annaglar of the eastern march lounged on the grass with many other handsome young elves, all entwined together on the grassy glade. Haldir watched with wonder as the ever-gentlemanly Cudae sat near them, flicking longing glances over at Annaglar, who was renowned for his way in the bedroom. Of all the… Haldir hadn’t seen that coming. He wondered…

But then a tug on his cloak distracted him from wandering thoughts, and he followed Iarwen down the tree and off into the nearby darkness, watching as she secretly traversed the shadows, throwing bags of herbs to each of the outlying bonfires, inviting a heady, foreign aroma to fill the air, before she stealthily returned to his side.

Haldir’s attention shifted when Celeborn rose, his tall form wrapped in crimson and gold. Silence descended as the Lord stepped onto the edge of the tiled floor and spoke. “Friends,” he greeted them, turning to look at Legolas. “Family,” he continued, turning to his daughter and her husband. “Guests. Welcome once more to our Byeltinyeh Feast. On the three-hundredth year of the third age, the Lady Galadriel and I offer for your enjoyment, The Dance.” He took his seat once more, and it seemed the elves all held their breath in anticipation, looking to the only dark patch: the entryway to the circular floor opposite the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood.

For a moment, all was stillness. Then, a grey-robed figure glided out from the darkness. Slow, rhythmic steps silently carried The Dancer to the center of the floor, where a bowed head acknowledged the Lord and Lady and then remained still as stone. Iarwen in her black cape, though now unhooded with long white hair flowing down her back, followed and moved to The Dancer. She inclined her head to the Lords and Ladies and Prince before coming round before the figure. White hands unclasped the cloak, and she moved behind him before lifting away the gray shroud.

The gasps from the younger elves were audible and The Dancer did not watch the expressions of wonder and joy overtake the audience, even as the heavy musk of the aphrodisiac rolled off him in waves to mingle with the strange incense floating in the air.

The pale form shimmered an unearthly gold before the watchers, waist-long hair falling to shield a veiled face, long legs wrapped in pale lilac, bells shining in the firelight. His beauty was, in a word, perfect.

There was no sound, but at the first rising of willowy arms, the first sway of slim hips, the first turn of a painted face, the magic had begun, and all in witness were held in thrall of the movement.

Rumil nearly shrieked when he caught sight of the flashing gold decoration at The Dancer’s chest. His hand fluttered up to cover his open mouth at the sudden recognition, but he kept any words of exclamation to himself.

Then came the sound of the bells, a clanging rhythm, painfully slow as bare feet moved over the creamy clay tiles, hips undulating in a familiar rhythm, setting the bells to singing as raised arms and twirling steps called forth passion and pleasure.

A hawk-like turn of the head sent The Dancer’s hair flaring out in a wave as his volatile gaze caught Glorfindel’s attention. The counselor’s blue eyes widened, seeing past Haldir’s disguise, but he made no other move, except to flash a knowing leer at The Dancer, who - for a flitting moment - returned the expression.

Sinuous movement called forth primal rhythm, a lost tempo taking up residence in every soul.

The arousal that washed over the hall was undeniable. Labored breathing, sudden sweats, hungry gazes… all were directed at The Dancer, the exotic stranger who weaved and swayed and drowned all other sight and sound and feeling in meaninglessness.

Rumil clutched tight to Glorfindel, who returned the embrace.

Firmly did Elrond and Celebrian clasp each other’s hands.

Elladan and Elrohir cleaved together in a relentless embrace.

Cudae, Erestor, Legolas, and Iarwen watched in lonely mesmerism.

Galadriel felt the Song awaken the primeval urges within her, but she could not help watching the unmistakable connection between The Dancer and Lord Celeborn.

Motionless was the Lord, his face lit with untempered lust, his unwavering gaze fixed on this enchanting Dancer. The inherent familiarity beneath the exotic exterior called to his body and to his heart; he could not refute this overwhelming desire.

And the unknown Dancer, a familiar smirk in place, played to all the audience, but ever did he return his violet gaze to Celeborn, a needful expression on his own obscured features.

Galadriel smothered a gasp. She knew that figure, that seemingly strange being. His smirking expression was unmistakable despite the veil and the paint and air of Mystery. And again Galadriel chastised herself for not seeing what had always been before her.

The Dance strove to draw forth an audience that was already hooked, and it seemed a groan rolled through them when he added the final component to his spell. His low hum, an erotic groaning purr, echoed that very music from the beginning of time, the original Song of lust and frenzy, the Song of sin and delight. This haunting melody, rolling and suggestive, combined with the swaying hips, the clanging chimes, the musky scent, overwhelming those present with sensation.

The thrusting movements, the driving sound of the bells, and the primitive growling voice weaved a work of art that had not been publicly witnessed for over an age as he danced as a turning wheel, and the watchers found themselves lost in all-consuming eroticism.

Within each and every being, blood now flowed in a heated pace, that ancient Song singing in their veins.

And when The Dancer ceased, coming to rest in his original pose, silence reigned once more.


	7. The Request

Lightly did Iarwen glide forth, banishing the lingering infatuation as she covered the bowing Dancer in the formless grey cloak.

It would be unfair to say there was a stampede to the bedrooms, but it was pretty close.

Haldir watched the audience’s exit from behind the thin weave of the grey hood that hid his face, and so too did Galadriel.

Haldir curiously observed Orophin, who sat in dour melancholy as he intently watched someone on the other side of the glade. Haldir swiftly followed his line of vision to see Rumil and Glorfindel making a hasty retreat. The two elves were absorbed in one another, and Orophin watched them not as a protective brother, but as one with jealousy and regret in his eyes. Haldir felt his heart nearly break at the sight, but seemed rooted to the spot and could not move as Orophin abruptly rose and stalked in well-hidden anger and guilty remorse into the surrounding darkness.

Shaken, Haldir watched the darkness for many moments, but Orophin did not reappear, and The Dancer eventually turned his attention to other happenings in the hall.

He and the Lady of the Wood curiously watched young Legolas where the Prince sat in uncomfortable solitude. Apparently, his Mirkwood fellows had abandoned him, and the young elf did not notice who had approached until he looked up at the two identical figures standing before him, each reaching out a hand. Legolas said nothing, but smiled as he accepted their hands up and walked with the sons of Elrond into the forest.

Especially intrigued by one scene in the shadowy distance, Haldir observed Cudae where he stood passively against the bole of a great mallorn. Annaglar softly approached his fellow March Captain, smiling. But this was not his usual lascivious grin, no; Annaglar’s expressive features held both hope and doubt, both lust and affection. Haldir smiled to himself even as his eyes widened at the sight of the repressed Cudae offering a heated, blundering kiss. They, too, joined hands and made swift exit through the trees.

Lord Elrond and the Lady Celebrian looked eager to depart, and Galadriel wondered at their reluctance to leave the floor… until she saw Erestor slinking off into the darkness. Lord Elrond called out into the night, and the Lady of the Golden Wood could hear his words. “Erestor!” The elf halted. “Be not alone tonight.” The Lord and Lady of Imladris beckoned to their seneschal, who hesitantly turned toward them. The three elves were almost the last to leave.

Still within the hall, Haldir had not moved from the center of the floor, though Iarwen had withdrawn into the shadows. Galadriel and Celeborn had not moved from their thrones, and she turned to see her husband still staring at The Dancer, who remained hidden in his cape. Finally, he too removed himself from the hall to join Iarwen in the darkness. Galadriel turned to face the Lord Celeborn.

“You want him.”

Shocked out of his reverie, Celeborn faced his wife, guilt underlying the lustful need expressed in his grey eyes. “I cannot deny it.”

Galadriel smiled with some small pity, both for her Lord and for herself. “Then have him, if he desires it.”

Celeborn looked shocked for only a moment, but a sudden unaccustomed fear crept over his features. “I do not wish to dishonor you. The Dance is not to be taken lightly…”

“Neither are your feelings,” she said.

“He is…” Celeborn licked his lips nervously and looked away. “I could not ask him…”

Galadriel’s face alighted with amusement. She stood from the carved white chair to stride forward, beckoning to The Dancer’s Attendant. Smiling to herself at Celeborn’s sudden shyness, she waited for Iarwen to approach.

“My Lady?”

“Iarwen, the Lord Celeborn should like to celebrate Byeltinyeh with The Dancer, if he is amenable.”

Iarwen merely bowed. “I shall ask him.”

Haldir watched curiously as Iarwen returned to his side. She said no words, merely looking back the way she had come. Haldir followed her gaze to see Galadriel smiling sadly at him, and further on…

A shudder ran through him at the sight of Lord Celeborn in his chair, staring with open desire at him. At him!

Galadriel saw neither words nor gestures pass between the two, but Iarwen returned, saying, “He is… amenable.”

Haldir watched in a disbelieving stupor as the old elves whispered to each other in the center of the dance floor.

When Iarwen came to him again, she whispered. “Go up to his chamber. His Lord would like… an encore.”

Haldir’s wrath was not visible beyond his lowered hood. “What?! But I…”

Iarwen dropped the air of matchmaker and Haldir suddenly saw the eternal despair in those ancient green eyes. She said, “Most often, it is the actions we do not take which we regret.” But then, that everlasting good humor returned and she reassured him, “I think your innocence has been maintained long enough - too long, if I may say so. And you have nothing to worry about: it is said that Dancers make the best lovers, experienced or nay.” She winked. “Knowledge matters not. It’s in your blood.”

Haldir knew it was meant to be comforting but his nerves still jangled. Before he could respond, Galadriel approached their corner of darkness. “You’ve no reason to deny yourself, Haldir of the March.”

He was not surprised at her recognition, but Haldir’s head jerked up at her words, hearing what was not said. It was permission. It was a gift; it was a sacrifice.

So, he could only bow before her and turn to stride out of the light, making his way to the long white ladders and stairs of the palace.

Celeborn watched all this with detachment, uncertain of what was passing between the three distant figures. When Galadriel returned to his side, she kneeled before him, those wise eyes peering knowingly into his own. “He awaits.”

Galadriel turned and walked away, stopping again at Iarwen’s side. The old crone tilted her head in speculation. “This changes everything,” she advised the Lady.

Galadriel looked back to Celeborn, still sitting, shocked, firmly in his seat. “I will not begrudge them their happiness.”

When Galadriel turned again, Celeborn could not see his wife’s face, but as they spoke one last time, he saw the old crone’s expression of shock before the two elf-women walked together into the night.


	8. The Encore

Haldir fled swiftly. He took no heed to his surroundings until he was within his Lord’s chambers, when he lifted his hood and looked about. Low railings twined like ivy vines in white carvings up similarly engraved pillars to the canopied white roof. White wooden planks were cool and smooth beneath bare feet, and the signs of his Lord lay about in the stacks of tattered books, scattered paperwork, and half-melted candles, which Haldir quickly lit.

He carefully hung up his cloak as he wandered about the huge talan that circled the trunk of a massive mallorn. Coming round the other side, he halted at the sight of the bed. A great white monstrosity was built into the talan, its posters climbing up and into the ceiling where milky transparent silk bed curtains fell around the four sides. Downy white pillows accented the white quilted bedspread.

Reaching within himself, Haldir found again that ancient melody and he sang it aloud in a hypnotic trembling whisper. He let it overwhelm him as he never had before and used this fevered desire to drown out the hurt of unreturned devotion, for this union would be heartfelt, but full of lust rather than love, in a blind encounter on the night of Byeltinyeh.

Letting go the pain, Haldir stalked toward the bed.

***

Celeborn never could recall how he’d managed to make the journey to his rooms. But then, he stood before his door, palms sweating. He was actually shivering with arousal, and attempted to calm himself with a few deep breaths. This only succeeded in making him light-headed. So before he could turn tail in apprehension or faint from the overwhelming tension, he reached out and pushed open the door.

Nervous steps carried him over the threshold and around the splendid talan where his bed lay on the western side.

His breathing ceased.

Through the shimmering ivory curtains wavering in the high breeze, The Dancer lay stretched out with catlike pride on his bed, great violet eyes peering up, the smallest of seductive smirks just visible beyond the pale violet veil. One hand pillowed the silver-golden head in self-assured comfort, the other casually twisting at that intriguing ring of gold through a coral colored nipple. Long silk-draped legs lay the length of his great bed, the further knee bent into the air in lazy invitation.

When Celeborn did not approach - having temporarily lost his mind in the aching fog of lust - that lithe being flowed forward onto his naked feet, bells tinkling rhythmically in a taunting echo of The Dance as he sashayed across the wooden floor in a slow seduction of wanton limbs and undulating hips, the jewels at his waist sparkling in the night’s faint light.

That Song singing in his veins raced through Celeborn’s body and gained power with every sinuous step The Dancer took until the elf stood before him, the barest slip of air between them and that unwavering smirk still in place.

Then, the Lord watched as the smirk transformed into a sultry smile. A many-jeweled hand rose, ghosting along his tall robed body to lay the soft pads of warm fingers on his heated face in a first touch of cautious affection. Painted eyes closed, hiding their dark depths, and the stranger guided himself forward.

Celeborn felt the caress of fine silk against his nose, his cheek, his parted lips, before the press of a heated mouth met his, the thin material of the veil a tantalizing barrier between them.

Celeborn’s eyes flashed shut and he leaned into the kiss, arms still at his sides, fearful that his touch would turn to blind abandoned need and he would effortlessly crush this exotic, fragile-seeming creature beneath him.

At this passionate - if carefully controlled - reaction, The Dancer backed away, staring up at the tall Lord from beneath half-lidded eyes, an achingly familiar smirk on a face Celeborn thought he should somehow know…

Seeing how the kiss had sent the Lord to harsher breathing, The Dancer laughed, a low melodious sound that was neither mocking nor derogatory, but only a satisfied chuckle. He stepped back again, swaying to the tune of the bells as arms were raised above his head and fluttered like wings in a twisting ballet before they flickered downward in some alluring choreography that heightened the yearning between them.

Celeborn’s eyes did not leave the tantalizing play of those golden hands as they slowly lowered, caressing the hairless chest in a show of wanton disregard, across a taut stomach and lower, to the silver ties about his waist.

A quick series of tugs had the garment undone and flung to the floor with a clatter of brass bells, forgotten.

Those long legs continued The Dance as the elf moved to push aside the bed curtains and seat himself on the mattress. For the moment, he feigned to ignore his audience of one as each foot was lifted and released from its leather and bell ornament. These were carelessly flung into a corner and The Dancer stood again. He ducked his head, scented hair flowing over broad (for an elf) shoulders and he made as if to remove that satin cloth over his loins, but then ceased, looking up with a playful expression. Painted eyes called and a single curving finger beckoned.

Celeborn could not resist the invitation and he moved smoothly forward. The Dancer reached out agile hands, deftly removing the red festival robes and golden tunic. The Lord was quickly freed of every garment and he stood unashamedly nude, his leaking arousal curving upward in ready hardness.

The Dancer’s hands, slightly callused, rested on the elf’s shoulders, caressing an intimate massage down strong arms until the Lord’s hands were guided forward to be set on a slender waist.

Celeborn wrapped his fingers around the satin knots… and pulled. A loud rip broke the silence and the ruined raiment was dropped. The Dancer stood in perfect exposure before the bed, half-hard and grinning with an almost nervous promise as he waited.

Celeborn’s eyes seemed to devour the golden form revealed before him: slender feet, strong legs, long organ hot and heavy, firm muscles up a toned chest and arms, and the beautiful face hiding its identity just out of reach behind a veil and some color.

Hesitantly the Lord’s hands returned to The Dancer’s body in an exploration that grew steadily more demanding. The stunning creature melted into the intimate touch, swaying and panting with his own desire as curious hands wound possessively through long loose hair. Celeborn leaned in, pressing their bodies flush together, burying his face in the magic-scented locks, licking the point of a tempting ear, as his hands came up to the back of a heated neck.

The Dancer jerked out of the embrace that searched for the ties to his veil. He pouted, wagging a disapproving finger at the Lord before pulling him into another silk-barred kiss.

***

Lost in the passion growing between them, Haldir had frozen when he realized the intent of those inquiring hands, and he’d pulled away in fear. The Lord still didn’t know who he was, and if Haldir had his wish, Celeborn never would. This one night would be enough to furnish his fantasies for an age, and Celeborn need never know the Mystery of The Dancer, and after this forgotten encounter, they could remain… friends.

The kiss grew hard and wet, turning the silk rough and scratchy between their tongues, but neither seemed to particularly mind as hard bodies wound together, hands seeking tingling flesh.

When Celeborn reached once more for the veil in slow, obvious gestures, The Dancer again pulled away. “Why do you hide from me?” the Lord asked, his thickened voice low and deep with arousal.

Haldir leaned forward, a gentle leer on his face as he brushed his veiled lips over the Lord’s ear, whispering, “The Art of The Dance demands Mystery.”

Shuddering at the sensation of wispy fabric brushing the delicate skin of his ear, Celeborn wondered at that voice, a purring promise of deep tones and light laughter. It struck a chord within him, this well-known cadence to the speech that he simply could not place.

Before further inquiries could be made, a suggestion of a touch whispered down his back, encouraging a low moan. When Haldir pulled away, Celeborn followed the singing hands that led him to the bed, beyond the shimmering curtains, to lie back on the deep mattress, gazing up at the sensual being hovering above him though barely touching.

Celeborn’s strong hand ventured forth to gently caress a rouged cheek, curl around a perfect elven ear, brush through that exotically scented hair of molten silver-gold. “Such a beautiful creature should not hide,” he murmured with a worshipful sigh. Celeborn could see the blush, even through the gilt skin, and he leaned up to kiss the jeweled brow just beneath the diamond hanging from the mithril circlet.

At this reverent treatment, Haldir blushed deeper, but matched the actions with kisses of his own to a cheek, a jaw, a shoulder. The veil was pulled up as it trailed over sensitized skin, revealing naked lips to trace a damp path over the straining body.

Mouth, hands, heated skin teased the Lord unmercifully, and Celeborn could not control the needing sounds that were coaxed forth: whimpers and moans, mewls and cries. Skillful lips closed over a peaking bud of flesh on his chest as fingers danced along his sides, alternately ghost-light and fiercely clutching.

Strong hands wound into the hair that dragged sensuously along the Lord’s sides as Haldir continued his southward journey, worshiping the body beneath him with the devotion of a reverent lover or well-paid harlot. Overwhelmed at his own passion, The Dancer didn’t spare a moment’s hesitation before sliding hot lips and an equally searing mouth over Celeborn’s straining need.

Passionate cries sounded through the late evening as Celeborn arched into the sucking warmth, so hot and wet and – oh, just perfect around him, unthinkingly guiding The Dancer’s head with a tangled grip in that scented hair.

Haldir spared only fleeting thanks for the abilities inherent in his blood as he tended without difficulty to his Lord, the increasing moans of encouragement spurring on his own lust, reveling at the fullness in his mouth, the grip on his hair, and the heaving body beneath him.

These eager ministrations escalated as Haldir drew him deep, and began to hum. The Song itself vibrated along Celeborn’s entire shaft and drew forth an intense, almost pained release with fervent thrusts and desperate cries.

Celeborn lay panting a moment before he drew Haldir up by his hair for another kiss, hot and almost loving, angry at the silk between them and thankful for everything else. Despite his climax, The Dance still surged within him, and he hadn’t softened in the slightest. If anything, the powerful arousal had increased and his need become a dominating force, driving him to take this sylvan creature. He looked up into hungry, violet eyes. “I can, at this moment, imagine no greater pleasure than to take you, force you and fuck you, love you and be one with you,” he growled, fierce and barely coherent.

Haldir moaned, a sound of passion, of submission, and of need, as Celeborn rolled them over, parting those strong legs to lie between them and thrust together with the beautiful Dancer.

When Celeborn parted those legs even further and began probing at the virgin entrance, Haldir thrust back on his hand in a fury of want, humming that melody, increasing the friction, the pressure, the lust between them. The Song relaxed him even as it poured through him in rippling waves of desire. “Oh yes, take me!” he moaned; it was almost a scream.

So he did. With intimate abandon and careless want, Celeborn thrust hard into the quivering body, finding the perfect sheath for his lust, and for his love – if only his bodily desire had not blinded his heart.

The pain and the pleasure and the love were one, and Haldir howled them out in a primal wail as he wrapped long legs about his Lord and clung desperately to strong shoulders – wider even than his own – tossing his head and biting red-painted lips and weeping with the overpowering rightness of it all.

Their coupling was an animalistic frenzy of claiming hands and scratching nails, biting nips and scraping teeth, pounding bodies and everything that was primitive and demanding and coarse and fierce.

Lost to the most vicious call of The Dance, they moved madly to its rhythm, marking and tearing and claiming.

The bed shook beneath them, the curtains shivered around them, and their cries mercilessly pierced the air to echo through the city of trees.

***

Perilous, they had been told. Dangerous, she had said. They should have listened.

Now, all was lost to the fury of The Dance, an unspoken truth twisting even tighter as their passions were finally spent in a shared moment of ripping ecstasy, woven through with sweat and shouts and strained obscenities as their bodies quaked and their minds rattled and it seemed the world crashed down around them.

***

Celeborn lay, heavy and spent, crushing his worn lover.

Now, their touches were gentle, a soothing balm to skin bitten and bruised. Beyond words, a lingering kiss was all they exchanged, amid those tender caresses, loving and relentless.

Yet even as they lay quiet and content, satiation gave way to a burgeoning arousal. Unlike the blaze that had burned them in its fury, this subtle fire was slow to heat, slow to stir. The touches were no less gentle in their accelerating firmness and the kisses, too, were sweet beyond measure.

Still lost to the magic of The Dance, still connected in body and in spirit, they could not stop the inevitable rhythm that began to grow. Not that they wanted to. Oh no, this act of lovemaking was as sweet and calm as the previous had been hard and rough. And this they certainly wanted, this ache that was unhurried and easy to build. It was desired, as sought after as had been that first furious fucking only moments before, and no less perfect.

Gradual was the continuing elevation, and the world spun away to nothing as their eyes met, violet and silver, never wavering as they moved together, finding peace, finding perfect harmony. Finding love.

This time, the release was celebrated in drawn-out whimpers that could never have been mistaken for anything but pleasure as their tear-filled eyes held the connection, heightening the passion, showing to each other the pure joy that was there.

***

After a time, they slipped from their connection, sore and aching and still desperate with need.

The Dance was alive within the lovers, revitalizing them, commanding and teaching; it worked its magic far too well.

Pressed tight together, they spoke in kisses, they sang with hands, they loved without words.

And finding yet another fire kindle between them, another melody swallow their souls, Haldir turned his Lord to his stomach, easing his passage with their spent emissions and taking what they both wanted.

Celeborn surrendered with unmitigated grace and passion as Haldir moved within him, a steadily growing tempo guided by lust and love and all those other mysteries that remain a part of every heart, mortal and immortal alike.

Again, Haldir’s veil fell before him, allowing those soft lips to caress the deep red lines he’d inflicted across his lover’s muscled back. One hand steadying a hip, the other circled round to tend to Celeborn’s need.

The lovers found their passions again with more sweet cries and clinging embraces.

***

And it was not the last.

For all the hours left to the midsummer night, they followed the Song of The Dance where it led them, to passion and pleasure and something so much deeper, something so much stronger, something…

Laying entwined together, Celeborn reached round again, silently asking the removal of the veil; however, The Dancer was adamant. But then, Celeborn closed his eyes, and he leaned in, lifting the silk as he did so, finally meeting those lips with his own.

Exquisite. Passionate. Delicate. It was all of these and more. The Dancer met him move for move as the exploration continued, the Lord’s eyes dutifully closed throughout this final connection.

Eventually, Celeborn withdrew, replacing the veil as he did so, and opening his eyes once more to see well-known violet brilliance staring back at him with hope and love and happiness.

So, allowing the Mystery to continue, Celeborn lay on his back, finally giving heed to the exhaustion that lay on the other side of any potent magic. It seemed the powerful Song of The Dance finally slipped away, chased into nothingness with the coming of the sun.

The silver morning greeted the sylvan elves, but they did not see it, as they slumbered peacefully and contentedly in a cherishing embrace.

***

It was still morning when Haldir awoke, nearly shocked at the vibrant ache throughout his entire body. His muscles rebelled as he attempted to command them, but he forced himself to move.

Thoughts whirled in his mind: fears, questions, confusion. He fought them all, choosing action above thought. With great effort, he extricated himself from the knot of limbs, marveling at all that glorious skin flush with his own. He mourned the loss as he withdrew from the bed, searching out the remains of his costume and wrapping it into a tight bundle beneath his arm.

He should have left, then and there. He should have disappeared through the door, the grey cloak swirling at his ankles.   But the bed called to him; at least, the elf within it did. Haldir padded over the smooth floor to stand beside this one-time lover, this one love. Not knowing what mad impulse drove him, he reached beneath his own flaxen tangles to remove the cursed veil, stained faintly with their passions and the red from his lips. He reached past the curtains to let the scrap of fabric fall to the empty pillow, where the impression of his head still lay.

And then, he bowed over the sleeping figure, grazing a ghost of a kiss across his Lord’s smooth brow. Words soft with devotion and solemn sadness were whispered to the slumbering Lord. “I love you, Celeborn.”

With that, he fled from the room, drawing the cloak tight and the hood low, racing along the forest floor, undisturbed at the seemingly misplaced silence inherent in a city on the morning after a feast day.

***

Within the safety of his solitary flet, his clothes were tossed to an unused corner. He stripped himself of the armbands, jewels, wrist cuffs, and earrings, stowing them away in a box beneath his simple bed. Into this he also placed the mithril circlet and the rings. He rubbed absently at the piercing of his ears, which would close within a day thanks to elven healing.

A supply of fresh water and soap stood in one corner where he had readied them the day before. These he used to meticulously cleanse himself of inks and powders and perfumes, scrubbing with ruthless and increasing anger until his hair was a tangled mass and his skin was rubbed red.

At last, when he felt almost fresh and clean, he fell into bed, exhausted, uncaring of the few tears that escaped haunted eyes.


	9. The Second Summons (and A Brotherly Interlude)

Haldir kept a watchful eye on all the ground below, and also among the trees. There was no movement though, not on this border, not in this era of peace, certainly not in this heated summer haze. There were no enemies, there was no threat, and the heat was enough to tempt even the most industrious elf into a noontime slumber.

Haldir’s glance moved to his feet, where sprawled a drowsing sentry, whose eyes were glazed with the nearness of sleep. A swift kick to the side roused him. “Mind your duty, Orophin,” Haldir rebuked in a whisper, watching as his brother sat up and scooted over to sit on the edge of the talan, his shoeless feet dangling off the side.

When Orophin finally spoke, it was in complaint. “Rumil has been overlong in his break. What keeps him?”

“We shan’t know till he arrives,” Haldir said softly, resuming his watch duty. He could see… there, Rumil moving slowly between the tree trunks from the direction of the stream, his stealthy movements betrayed by the sun glinting off silver hair. The young elf wore only his thin trousers, with his uniform and quiver slung idly over a shoulder.

Many minutes later, the youngest had joined his brothers, flinging his things onto the flet before climbing up after. He moved to sit beside Orophin in similar fashion saying, “It’s hot!”

“That does not excuse your tardiness,” Haldir pointed out. “And if you are wise, it will not happen again, understood?”

Rumil pouted, but sternly replied, “Yes, Captain.” And then, under his breath, “It’s hot…”

Haldir silently agreed. Scorching. Sizzling. Stifling. Hot. It was hot. Rumil looked most comfortable in his attire. Orophin, too, had shrugged off cape and tunic and shoes, looking – if not cool – at least contented, in shirt and breeches, with long golden hair tied back in a leather thong. Haldir was the only one of them still in full uniform, still standing, still keeping watch over a forest that was motionless, and in which all the green things drooped in sad lethargy for lack of water and too much sun. Not the barest breeze disturbed them, even fifty feet off the ground. There was no relief from the heat, but Haldir did not show this. His hair and clothes were in perfect alignment; he neither complained nor showed any sign of annoyance. He kept to his duty, and that was that.

The three elves had not sat long when Rumil suddenly jumped to his feet, squinting through the trees. “Someone approaches from the city!”

“Indeed,” Haldir replied, having long heard their approach. “Tis a messenger.”

“Messenger?” Orophin replied. “Isn’t that Cudae?”

Haldir glanced southward. Sure enough, the son of the elf lord came loping through the silver barked trunks. “Aye,” Haldir said. “Have you not heard? Cudae has given up his position as March Warden of the South. He and Annaglar have chosen to bind themselves. Life would be difficult with one ever at the South and the other on the East border. Cudae will transfer to the Eastern March and will serve as first lieutenant to Annaglar. Until the transfer order goes through, he has been errand-runner for the Lord and Lady.”

Catching the glint in Orophin’s eye, Haldir warned, “Do not ridicule him. The wheel of Fate bears a double-edged sword. For an elf of his standing, it is much to give up in the name of love.” And without his family’s blessing, he silently added.

By this point, Cudae and Rumil had greeted one another with silent gestures, signals used only among the Galadrim. The messenger’s light voice carried up through the trees. “Sons of Feagul. I’ve a message from the Lord Celeborn for Haldir, captain of the Northmarch.”

“Join us and rest from your journey,” Haldir spoke softly, his low purr carrying down to the sensitive elven ears below.

Swiftly did Cudae ascend the rope ladder, gratefully accepting Rumil’s flask. He drank and then removed a bound scroll from his belt and handed it to Haldir. “I thank you for this respite, but I dare not tarry in my duty. I was imbued with the distinct impression that this was most urgent,” spoke the habitually subdued elf, with more humor and lightness in his tone and eyes than Haldir could ever recall witnessing.

Haldir thanked him softly and unrolled the scroll only to find another sealed one within it. Violet eyes skimmed the opened parchment and a blank look settled on his regal features. “Yes, thank you…” he replied absently. “Indeed, I must go at once.”

Rumil was about to interrogate him, but Orophin prevented him from questioning his captain in the presence of another with a firm hand on his arm. “Cudae,” Haldir spoke formally as he gathered his things, “take your leisure before you return to Caras Galadon. Sentries, mind your duty, and obey Thinthoron; I know not when I shall return.” Rumil and his brother could only watch as Haldir gracefully descended the tree to land without a sound on the dry grass and speed into the distance like the echo of a whispering wind.

“Why would he go west?” Rumil asked, his bright eyes watching his eldest brother’s progress.

Orophin shrugged, also observing Haldir with concern. “I don’t know.”

***

Once out of sight of the northern line of border guards, Haldir slowed to a walk and once again opened the message from his Lord. This time, he read it more thoroughly.

‘Haldir, Son of Feagul, Guardian of Lorien, Captain of the Northern March, and Dear Friend,

I do not intend insult to your status, but I find once again that I must turn to you for subtle acts and trusted secrecy.   
First, I bid you leave at once to deliver this second sealed message to Iarwen, Attendant to The Dancer. In truth, I could find no other elf brave enough to approach her, but I have faith in you, Haldir.   
Second, I ask that you await her response and deliver it to me without delay.  
We shall speak upon your arrival at Caras Galadon.

Regards,  
Celeborn’

Haldir shuddered. Iarwen, ‘Attendant to The Dancer,’ he had specified. What was happening now? Haldir did not think he could go through that again… He did not think he had yet recovered from the first.

In truth, it was not The Dance that so affected him, but the events that had come after. It had been almost a year now, and he was still haunted with equal amounts of guilt for deceiving his Lord and regret for denying his Love.

Now, with only two weeks until Byeltinyeh, Haldir could only hope he had the strength to refuse whatever the Lord had planned for The Dancer, lest his heart be truly broke in twain.

***

“This heat is practically unbearable,” Cudae observed, removing his messenger’s sash and standing to stretch his legs. He looked down at the two sentries, near sweating on their lonely perch. “Tell you what,” Cudae offered with a sympathetic smile. “You two run along. Take a two hours’ break and I shall watch your post.”   
Orophin and Rumil exchanged a look of surprised delight. They stood together, turning to their visitor. “We would be most thankful,” Orophin agreed with a slight bow. “For we have been on watch these many months without a break together.”  “Haldir seems to think we would get into trouble,” Rumil added helpfully.

Orophin nudged his brother as if to say ‘shut up, you!’ He gave a false, tittering laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he scolded. Turning again to Cudae, he offered, “And in return for this favor, you may help yourself to any of our stock that is appealing.” Orophin nimbly leapt up to grab hold of a branch, and reached into a high, hidden cranny to remove a basket.

“September wine from the vineyards,” Rumil said as Orophin handed the basket down before dropping lightly to his feet. “Sweetmeats and apples from the northern orchard.”

“A rare feast!” Cudae approved enthusiastically, accepting the woven basket from Rumil. “I think your favor now better than mine and find my offer lacking. Make your rest double and we shall consider ourselves fair.”

“There is no need to keep you,” Orophin bargained. “No doubt you wish to be off home soon enough. But call the count three hours and we shall be even.”

“Agreed,” Cudae said with a smile, taking Haldir’s former stance as he bit into an apple.

Only Orophin brought his bow and quiver, leaving Rumil’s set for the temporary guard, a messenger who had come armed only with knives.

They wasted no time in their flight from the mallorn to race along the worn path to the stream but a half-mile away.

***

Tunics and trousers went flying as the brothers reached the small glade where a large pool had formed from a natural dam in the water’s path. Orophin pulled off the tie that held his hair and dived headlong into the cool depths like a sleek, flashing fish while Rumil ran in with a grand leap and equally grand splash, as he had since childhood. Elvish laughter, like silver bells, rung out high and happy in the green glade where the plants thrived on the stream’s water and the elves standing in the sun-dappled shallows soon took to splashing great waves at one another with vigorous delight. Traditions must be maintained, after all.

One particularly overzealous spray caught Orophin in the face, and he gagged with surprise at the nose-full of water, turning on Rumil with a vengeful, sinister light in his grey eyes. “Oh, you shall pay dearly for that, little brother.”

Rumil’s own eyes, dark and blue, widened with fearful excitement as Orophin advanced.

The larger elf lunged, and though Rumil dodged, the water slowed him, conspiring to allow Orophin’s strong arms to catch him about the waist, bringing both down with a mighty splash beneath the surface.

Suddenly - as though a resonating drum had been abruptly hushed - their world was plunged into silence with the weight of the water on their ears, though the sunlight streamed through the boughs above to brightly illuminate the water in streaks of golden green and pure blue as elven hair flashed silver and gold like darting fish within the depths as the submerged elves dashed and weaved. The struggle continued in a muted display of elven agility within the underwater world as Orophin’s strength was pitted against Rumil’s dexterity, both hindered by the heavy water. The younger elf struggled valiantly in the clear depths, as his slick and squirming form almost evaded the eagerly searching hands.

Alas, he could not meet Orophin’s more experienced play, and so remained submerged when, in the end, his brother wrapped an unforgiving hand in his long silver hair to keep him below.

Air spent in exercise was soon depleted, and when Rumil’s struggles weakened, Orophin pulled the sputtering elf up, holding his head just above the surface as he stood victoriously with Rumil in his grasp. “Do you submit?”

“Never!” came Rumil’s playful cry, and he was again ducked beneath the waters.

Having gained a fresh breath of air, Rumil drew his strength together, releasing his double-fisted grip on Orophin’s wrist to reach for the nearest leg. Without hesitation, he pulled himself forward and sunk his teeth into his brother’s thigh.

Still beneath the water, he only heard a muffled version of the shrill, angry scream that rang out in the open air, but he felt the hand release its relentless clutch and Rumil quickly pushed off the stony bottom to breach the surface, gain a breath, and dive again, swiftly swimming round to take hold of Orophin’s shoulders and shove him beneath before protest could be uttered.

Knowing he had not the strength to keep Orophin there, Rumil again darted away out of reach, barely evading his brother’s searching grip. “You devil!” the elder of them cried through a mouthful of water when he emerged, throwing droplets off his head and shoulders like an angry bull as he glared spitefully at a chuckling Rumil. “You bit me!” he accused with shock, as though he scarcely believed it himself even as a slight trickle of blood polluted the water near his pelvis.

“You gave me little choice,” Rumil rejoined, dancing back and forth where he stood in the water, ready to leap away at the first sign of attack. “I should rather bite my brother than asphyxiate at his hands!”

Orophin let out a gruff noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl before charging forward, his clawed hands outstretched, aiming for his brother’s neck.

Rumil let out a surprised squeal before sinking below the surface and pushing himself through the water.

Standing still in silent displeasure, Orophin with arms akimbo watched Rumil tire himself in the pool, long pale limbs cutting through the water with silver hair flowing like a train of mithril-hued seaweed behind him.

One daring turn, however, brought Rumil his doom. As he flashed past, Orophin’s hand shot into the water like a loosed arrow, clutching his brother’s neck. He promptly threw his other arm about the elf’s waist and maneuvered him right up into the air to be carried, howling and cursing, up to the shore where he was thrown unceremoniously to the bank with an undignified thud.

“Ow!” came the loud complaint. “What did you do that for?!”

Orophin crossed his pale, muscled arms and glared threateningly down at his brother.

Rumil met this expression with a cheeky grin. “Your glare is not half so frightening as Haldir’s, so don’t bother.”

A low, rumbling growl sounded before Orophin launched himself at his brother.

Rumil responded with another shriek before the two elves were tussling on the grassy shore, more often rolling about than attempting any sort of offense, though a few bruises and scratches were inflicted before Orophin pinned his slighter brother to the ground. “Do you submit?”

Not the slightest hesitation proceeded Rumil’s enthusiastic, “Never!!!” A cruel pinch to Orophin’s hip allowed enough distraction to reverse their positions and they once more struggled to subdue the other, rolling nearer and nearer to the water’s brink.

Orophin managed to land Rumil in the shallow edge of the pool with a generous splash. Rumil’s immediate response was to reach for his brother’s nose, twisting harshly.

“Argch!” Orophin half choked, half screamed as he jumped away. “You fight like a girl!”

Rumil giggled, crab-walking back up the bank and out of Orophin’s reach.

“That hurt, you little monster!” the elder accused as he once more prowled up the bank.

Rumil had not fled, and he lay, panting, near the shore, allowing Orophin to approach and tower over him. “Revenge is mine,” Orophin declared. Without warning, he leapt onto Rumil, straddling his thighs to effectively keep him in place as he reached for the sensitive skin either side of his stomach.

Rumil’s blue eyes widened with adrenaline and fear. “No!!” he cried. “No, don’t!”

A wicked grin met these pleas, and Orophin at once set to tickling his brother mercilessly.

Uncontrolled laughter burst forth in a song of panting titters and raucous guffaws as Rumil squirmed uselessly beneath this loving assault, trying to push away the unforgiving fingers as tears of mirth trickled from those dark blue eyes. “Stop Orophin! Ai, stop I say!”

Orophin laughed at the weak commands, redoubling his attack. Rumil’s shrieks increased as his defense weakened.   
 “Ha ha!” Orophin crowed. “Do you submit?”

Rumil struggled in vain and did not answer.

Orophin sped his teasing fingers, leaning over his brother and demanding, “Do you submit?”

Rumil growled, but then shouted, “Ai! Ach! Yes! YES! I submit!”

Orophin grinned in triumph before collapsing to the ground beside his brother, their long legs entangled as they lay panting in the shade on the stream’s grassy bank.

Finally, it was Orophin who broke the silence. “Ah, I have missed our play, brother.”

Rumil sighed in agreement, but then answered in a serious tone. “Aye, but our duty now lies with the March. We have little need for such romps.”

Orophin turned, his golden hair falling over his eyes. He tossed his head to clear his vision, meeting Rumil’s wide blue gaze. “When did my little brother grow up?” he asked in a low tone, half to himself.

Rumil nearly blushed at the abrupt intensity of Orophin’s scrutiny and the sudden sobriety of his words, but he met the gaze unflinchingly. “I couldn’t say,” Rumil offered, “But I do believe it may have been the moments after The Dance at last year’s Byeltinyeh Feast.”

Grey eyes regarded the younger with delighted surprise before Orophin burst out in laughter rich and deep, soon met by Rumil’s own giggles.

“You harlot!” the elder teased, reaching over to ruffle Rumil’s silver-white hair, mussing the damp tresses into a tangled mess.

Rumil mock-pouted at his brother’s gestures and words, pulling himself to a sitting position away from Orophin’s teasing fingers to rake his own hands through his wet mane, straightening the worst of the snarls and snares. “Ai! Orophin!” he shrieked, looking down at where their long legs lay entwined on the deep green grass. “You are bleeding!”

The golden-haired brother looked down at the perfect set of red teeth marks in his thigh. “Well, yes,” he agreed.

Rumil grumbled to himself as he untangled their legs, rising to waltz to the shoreline where he weeded through the plants until he came up with a handful of thick yellow grasses.

Orophin lay sprawled on the green sward, watching with bemusement as Rumil marched huffily back to kneel beside him. “Hold still,” the younger ordered with uncharacteristic gloom. He splashed a handful of water on the wound and used a torn scrap from his tunic to carefully dry it.

“Why so sour?” the elder curiously asked.

Rumil glanced up quickly. “I am sorry. It was not my intent to hurt you.”

“So you are sorry, and I am fine. There’s no need to mope.”

Rumil made no answer as he squeezed out the sticky fluid from the water grass onto the still-bleeding bite.

Orophin smiled as he spoke. “Do you remember when you and I used to wrestle each other in the bramble grove, and we’d come crying to Haldir covered in scratches?”

A thin smile escaped Rumil’s mouth. “Aye,” he spoke grudgingly. “And he would set us down and clean us up, and tell us how mother used to do the same for him.”

“And when we were all cleaned up, covered in this awful, sticky goop, we would complain that it still itched.”

“So, he would ask us where, and then kiss our knees and elbows and noses until we were convinced his kisses had healed all the hurt…” Rumil reminisced, a distant smile recalling those long gone days.

Orophin nodded agreement, lost in memories of childhood. “Mmm,” he mused, unconsciously wiggling his leg as he laughed in a low rumble, “it DOES itch…”

Rumil’s smile sweetened as he commiserated with his elder brother, but then his open gaze met his brother’s…

…and everything changed.

Blue eyes flashed wickedly and his grin became something far from sweet as his crouch turned predatory and he loomed closer over a confused Orophin.

“Rumil, what are you—?”

The silver-haired siren stooped low, his dark eyes a’gleaming with untold promises as his pink, bowed mouth parted in a puckered smile. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper that skittered across the sensitive skin of Orophin’s hip. “I’ll take the hurt away, Oro,” was the promise murmured roughly against that golden pale skin before pouting lips were pressed lovingly against the marred flesh.

Sparkling blue eyes never turned from Orophin, whose own grey eyes had widened to comical proportions. His chest stilled as breath halted in his throat, a light sweat breaking in the heat of the day as the effect his brother’s ministrations had on him was evinced in the sudden interest that grew rapidly between his legs. Acutely aware of their nudity, Orophin still could not pull his eyes away.

Rumil, too, stared with hungry hesitance as he allowed Orophin’s thoughts to lead him to whatever conclusion they would, his lips hovering inches away from the healing flesh of the pale thigh and the swelling flesh of the dusky sex.

Orophin offered no words, but finally released the sudden build of tension with a sultry exhalation, a barely heard sigh that stuttered with desire.

And Rumil found that small sigh more arousing than any whispered words or longing looks or karmic kisses. His eyelashes fluttered as he whimpered low in his throat. Inuring himself to the possibility of refusal or worse, Rumil’s grin widened as he whispered in halting breaths, “Have I healed your itch, Orophin?”

Grey eyes, still stunned, sought blue, and Orophin answered in hitching breaths. “Aye, you’ve healed the hurt you inflicted, but I’m afraid you’ve provoked a new… ‘itch’ within me, brother.”

“Ah,” Rumil breathed out, his damp hair trailing the thighs, the groin, the stomach before him, “I apologize. But since it was I who awoke the itch, then perhaps I should be the one to scratch it, eh?” Young Rumil waited, his turn to be breathless, for an answer.

Orophin carefully regulated his own breathing, unable to control this burgeoning desire, still growing like a relentless vine within him. “I don’t…” he halted his words, realizing he had spoke without thinking, and not for the first time that day. “Why?”

Rumil shrugged, making the gesture an elegant ripple that rolled through his entire body. “Because it feels right. And good. And I love you, dear brother.”

Relieved and smiling at this confession, Orophin sighed again, a sound of liberation. “You are right. I mean,” he stumbled over his words, “I feel exactly the same.”

Rumil again grinned his sweet smile, with a flirtatious edge to it. “Then why do you make no move toward me?”

Hesitantly, Orophin’s curiosity crept forth with a troubled question, “What of Lord Glorfindel?”

His brother’s expression did not change as he spoke lovingly. “Glorfindel will always be my first. And I will always love him, as friend and mentor. But he is not meant for me, nor I for him.” The silver-haired elf grew more serious as he continued. “I know not if I shall ever be bound, but at this moment I desire nothing more than to lay with you here, now, and revel in the joys of life and love.”

A small gasp betrayed Orophin at the completion of this severe and honest declaration, but before he could respond, Rumil voiced a question of his own.

“And you, Oro? All those many lasses and lads you’ve chased over the years? None have captured your heart?”

“My heart shall never be captured, but I may give it at my choosing to one I love. I have shared pleasure with many; it is true, but always in the spirit of friendship and easy lust. My heart is yet my own, and this day, I would share it with you.”

At this, Rumil’s grin grew blinding and he shifted forward, banishing the smile only so that his lips could mate properly with his brother’s, slow and heated and filled with a deep, unequivocal sort of love.

Orophin’s long-fingered hand fluttered like a frightened bird, echoing the beating of his heart, as he laid it, trembling, along Rumil’s pale cheek to draw him close and return this first true kiss with abandoned devotion.

A slick tongue tested the seam of full lips as Rumil breached his brother’s mouth, teasing and stroking until the heat of the summer day was nothing compared to the blaze kindled so swiftly between them.

Orophin remained propped by one hand entwined in the grass while the other still trembled against the smooth skin of his brother’s face, but Rumil’s hands were far from still, caressing ever-growing circles against a muscle-corded leg, the rippling planes of a taut stomach, the budding nubs of a smooth chest, until Orophin was panting and weak beneath him.

Finally, Orophin had to pull away, his grey eyes focused on the younger elf with devotion deeper than the sea and love truer than any oath.

Rumil saw this, and smiled. He moved over his gilded brother, coaxing him to lay flat on the bed of grass, that gold hair coiling beneath his head finer than strands of spun silk. Rumil affectionately ran his nimble fingers through the sleek tresses while covering his brother’s face with kisses, from strong jaw to thin-lidded eyes, from red-tinted lips to pointed ears.

Giving himself up to this erotic pleasure, Orophin arched and writhed beneath loving kisses and claiming touches, feeling Rumil smile against his flushing cheek. In turn, the elder elf let loose his passions, matching every teasing touch with one of his own as he thrust up relentlessly in a lazy, even rhythm.

Wanton moans betrayed Rumil’s control and he lasciviously rolled his hips in turn, bowing his head to let silver locks drag along the sweating flesh beneath him in tantalizing swirls. At this sensation, Orophin whimpered and drew his aggressor in for a deep kiss.

Then hungrily they moved together, devouring with mouths and tongue and teeth, claiming with fingers and hands, and thrusting madly to that ancient song.

Pressure built, and with a shout Orophin halted his movements begging, “Wait, wait!”

“Mmm?” Rumil managed as he pulled himself to hands and knees, separating their more intimate parts so he could attend Orophin’s plea with a clear head.

“Stand up, stand up brother,” the elder asked, guiding the slender sentry to his feet with firm, gentle hands.

Rumil stood shakily, looking questioningly down at Orophin, who kneeled temptingly before him. And before Rumil could gather the wit to speak, the golden-haired nymph slid strong hands up supple legs to grip hips slimmer than his own. Then, he kneeled up and Rumil gasped as his intentions finally became clear, snaking a sneaky tongue out to taste the sweat from the hairless body at that delicate crease where leg meets pelvis.

“Oh,” Rumil sighed out, the sight and sensations overwhelming. Orophin continued nipping kisses and teasing licks up to his navel and back around the other side. Rumil could not hold back the slight thrust of his hips, nor the strangled whimper from his throat as Orophin continued this new form of play.

“Cease your taunting, Oro, please…”

At his words, Orophin grinned, but acceded to his brother’s wishes with tender movements of lips and tongue on the head of the lean organ standing stiff before him.

Rumil sang out in the summer air, like birdsong, as Orophin swallowed him deeply, bringing him ever closer to the edge…

He stopped.

“Ah! Oro?” Rumil’s dazed eyes widened, and he released the stranglehold he didn’t know he’d had on his brother’s shining yellow locks, watching as Orophin moved away to resume his lounging position on that green, green grass.

Then, he spread his legs.

Rumil trembled at the wonton invitation, and sank to his knees before the sensual image. “I love you, my dear brother,” he pledged, moving between those strong legs, pressing a kiss to the healing bite mark as he went.

“Ai,” Orophin sighed. “And I love you.” Rumil finally lay aligned atop him and their eyes met, grey and blue, and they smiled.

Rumil let a teasing hand slither its way up from Orophin’s hip to dance along his side, his chest, and his throat, before taking the hand away and bringing it to his own mouth, sucking two fingers inside as he watched Orophin’s intent observance. “Ooh… that’s naughty,” the elder breathed hoarsely, unable to draw his eyes away. “I like it.”

Smiling around his fingers, Rumil made good show of wetting the strong digits until Orophin wriggled impatiently beneath him.

The hand wetly backtracked its path until those fingers prodded at a waiting entrance, tapping the puckered flesh as if requesting entrance. Orophin nodded his readiness and sighed with pleasure as a slick finger penetrated the awakened ring of muscle and quickly established an unrushed rhythm.

Now it was Orophin singing out in gasps and moans as Rumil sought his center and added another finger to the not inexperienced passage. “Oh, in me, yes,” came the barely coherent request, and Rumil – losing himself quickly to lust – instantly obeyed. He removed the stretching fingers to steady himself at the loosened opening.

A groan of pleasure overwhelmed Orophin’s slight whimper, protesting that inevitable burning pain. But Rumil took care to move slow and read the signs his lover sent in touches and looks. He held himself still until Orophin relaxed, and then withdrew and advanced again, and then again, delving deeper with each loving stroke, encouraged by the throaty noises his brother emitted.

“Ah!” Orophin called out, finding that he was clutching his brother close and dear and that a tear had escaped one grey eye.

Rumil saw this and slowed his movements. He leant forward to lovingly kiss the salty drop away. “You cry?” Rumil asked, keeping the thrusting moves shallow and slow as he brushed comforting hands through sun-colored hair.

“Aye, I have wanted this for so long,” Orophin finally admitted. “And now I have you, it is more sweet, more tender, more perfect than anything I could ever wish for.”

Taken aback at this confession, Rumil halted with surprise, but then smiled in a bittersweet expression, and kissed Orophin’s chin. “Now you have me,” he agreed. “And you can have me for as long as you like.”

Orophin tensed beneath him and Rumil stilled completely, his dark brows furrowed in worry.

Orophin clutched the back of his brother’s neck and drew him down into a tight embrace as if their already intimate connection was not close enough. Orophin’s lips brushed a pointing ear and his usually strong voice quivered with hope as he whispered, “And what if I want you forever?”

Rumil laid a kiss to the dewy skin of Orophin’s neck before he pulled back to survey grey eyes wild with fear and love, a rough mingling of emotions. “You would gift your heart to your own brother?”

“Aye. I wish it so. Will you keep my heart safe, Rumil?”

“It shall beat alongside my own, and we both shall care for each other, for I think you are the one for me.” Rumil halted before asking, “Do you then suppose we should defy elven custom? For while education of the flesh is overlooked, the binding of a kinsman’s heart is not favored.”

“If I cannot have you to share my life and my love, than I shall cast aside all others,” Orophin declared. “No sin is so great as an elf alone, who may whither of grief and despair.”

Rumil managed a smile through all this talk and answered in kind, “Our family hardly has an upstanding history,” he agreed. “And I find no sin in our love, brother.”

“Then shut up and drive me to madness, dear one,” Orophin agreed with a grin, shifting to thrust against his lover.

Rumil stole one more lingering kiss before complying with his brother’s wishes and stroking deep within him.

Their movements, though fierce, retained a gentleness inherent in cautious lovers meeting flesh to flesh for the first of many times. Crystalline voices sounded their pleasure in the forest as they danced the ancient dance together, brother and brother, lover and lover.

Whining moans became desperate, rising in pitch and volume. Rumil reached between their entwined bodies to grasp his lover and stroke him in this forceful tempo they’d created until Orophin crowed his release, convulsing and shuddering with brutal intensity.

He had held back, waiting. And as soon as Orophin reached completion, Rumil allowed himself to follow, slamming hard into that willing, loving body - strong and beautiful - beneath him. “Orophin!”

If time then passed, if the earth then moved, if the sun kept to its path, then the brothers did not know it.

They lay panting, relishing in the delightful lightness that centered them and filled them with peace.

“I love you.”

“Yes, love you always,” Orophin agreed brokenly.

Closely clung the brothers, finding stability only with one another.

After many moments of sweet and gentle touches, they moved back to the convenient pool, washing away the sweat, the grass, the stains amid adoring caresses and amorous kisses.

Finally, clean and sated and impossibly happy, they lay naked together on the verdant bank, with legs again entwined and fingers laced.

Orophin tilted his head to look down at Rumil, who found Orophin’s chest a convenient pillow and rested half atop him, silver hair spilling onto golden skin and lush grass. A deep quiet had settled on the younger brother. “What troubles you, Rumil?”

Rumil shifted, restless, against him. He changed positions, lying face down on top of Orophin and peering with those deep blue eyes into his brother’s grey ones with troubled intensity. “It is Haldir.”

“Ah,” Orophin agreed, shifting to place one hand behind his head, running the other through silver silk. “Our dear brother. He has been…”

“Distant.”

“Aye. Well, he’s always been distant. But now, he even pulls away from us.”

“He mourns in silence,” Rumil insisted. “But what he mourns, I cannot say.”

“Neither will he,” Orophin joked.

“Nay, he will not,” Rumil lamented. He sighed deeply, resting his head beside Orophin’s and lightly kissing the smooth jaw. “It all began with The Dance.”

Orophin’s brows fell in confusion. “Why do you think so? He did not even attend it.”

Rumil giggled unexpectedly. “You just keep on thinking that, Oro.”

Ignoring this puzzle for the time being, Orophin asked, “I have already tried talking to him. As have you. What are we to do now?”

A disconcerted shrug was his only answer.

The brothers lay there yet a little longer. Their time was near spent, but they had moments enough to turn and watch as the sky slowly darkened, crystal cobalt giving way to a violet not unlike the color of Haldir’s eyes, and then a deep dark blue as what was left of the sun illuminated the last of the day.

The sun’s final light fell reflected by the deepening sky on both elves, but it was Orophin’s gloriously golden skin and blonde hair that refracted this light most keenly. And as the moon rose, reflecting pale white light down on the brothers, it was Rumil’s fair skin and silver hair that accented the light most acutely. And for this fleeting moment, a sun-child and moon-child glowed together in the twilight.

And though the brothers could not appreciate the perfect picture they formed together, they did take note of this moment of perfection between them, marked only by love and joy and all those good things that any being craves.

Rumil snuggled closer in the tightening embrace, and he smiled. “So this is where Fortune’s Wheel has led us. I wish I could halt that wheel, for I would not be averse to staying here, with you, just like this… for all time.”

***

The fading sun brought Haldir to his goal. Silent grace carried him within the deep dark of the eerie forest.

He stopped. “Mae govannen, Iarwen,” his deep tenor echoed through the trees. “It is I, Haldir Feagulion, requesting entrance to your home.”

The voice that answered him was not the sort to be heard by any ears, even those of elves. ‘Enter and be welcome, son of Feagul.’

Fatigued, Haldir found a sigh escaped him at this salutation, and as he moved within the close-grown trees, he found his steps were not as light as they had been.

He marched determinedly onward through the ancient forest, and saw no sign of the ancient elf who dwelt there until he breached the line of trees at her clearing. There, he stopped and allowed himself a small smile at the friendly sights: the old stream still rushing merrily along, the garden of cheery flowers and strangling vines, and the old hut with happy yellow light spilling from the cross-hatched windows and smoke rising from the chimney. The old oak door stood open to the descending night and firelight from within cast dancing shadows on the stone walkway.

Before Haldir took another step, a stooped form wrapped in velvet green appeared in the doorway to greet him. “Haldir!” Iarwen cried with a smile, moving forward with open arms.

But Haldir could not greet her thusly when such troubles weighed his mind. He stepped backward and bowed low before the old crone.

Iarwen was not offended; that was not her way, but his abnormal actions worried her. She halted three paces from him, folding pale white hands before her as Haldir straightened from his obeisance to resume that proud posture. Iarwen eyed him thoughtfully. “Your steps are heavy; I can see you carry many cares. But once again you have come on some purpose. First, tell me of your mission.”

Haldir nodded with relief, but gave a troubled sigh as he removed the sealed scroll from some secret pocket. “Iarwen, Attendant to The Dancer, Lord Celeborn has asked me to deliver you this message and await your swift reply.”

She frowned with concern at his formal manner, but accepted the missive from his almost steady hand.

“Very well. But I insist you come inside and sit down, Haldir.”

He only nodded and when she turned, followed her into the low-ceilinged cottage. He ducked under some drying herbs and seated himself in his great chair as Iarwen fetched a ruby-red tea. The heavy clay mug was accepted with shaking hands and Haldir grimaced at this weakness. Eying the drink speculatively, he sniffed. The smell was bitter and -- he soon discovered -- so was its taste, but not overwhelmingly so and he drank it greedily, grateful for the warmth.

When he had finished, he lowered the cup to his lap, still clutching at the remaining heat of the dense clay, and looked pointedly at Iarwen.

Sitting across from him, her wide green eyes regarded him curiously. “What?”

“The message, Iarwen. It is urgent,” he said without emotion, though his violet eyes had the look of a lost, desperate creature.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as if she’d forgotten it. The old elf pulled the scroll from her sleeve, ignoring Haldir’s intense expression, both hopeful and fearful. Delicate fingers stained with flour from baking slowly unrolled the crisp parchment.

Haldir sat frozen, awaiting some response, but Iarwen’s words were long in coming. Many moments she sat hunched in the great oaken chair, the paper turned toward the light from the hearth. After several minutes of reading and rereading, her green eyes shifted upward. Her sweet voice was quiet. Low. “Do you know what this contains?”

Nearly frightened now, Haldir answered, “Not a clue.”

Iarwen sighed, and life returned to her motionless form as elegant movements re-rolled the scroll and tossed it carelessly into the fire. “Haldir. Brew some more tea. Sit with me here awhile, and tell me your thoughts.”

Too tired to argue, Haldir wearily stood to hang up his cloak and bag, and do as he was bid.

***

Finally, they once more shared the seats before the fireplace and, draining the last of their tea, she spoke. “You carry a burden I’ve never seen on you before, dearheart. You are changed, and unless I’m much mistaken, it has to do with what passed last Byeltinyeh.”

Haldir could not meet her concerned gaze, and bowed his flaxen head. “I cannot lie to you. My heart is heavy.”

“Oh? Please, Haldir, confide in me. It looks as though you have trusted this secret to no other, but you need not bear your burden alone. What has come to pass?”

Haldir sighed, a shuddering breath full of pain, but could make no answer.

Iarwen smiled sadly. “Shall I guess then? Is it your brothers?”

“My brothers…” Haldir murmured. “Nay. I have no quarrel with my brothers.”

“Then your duties bother you?”

“Nay. I am more than satisfied with my work and my fellow Guardians.”

“Your mother?” she asked softly.

“Nay. I have accepted her choice and mine.”

“Your father?”

“My father? Nay. I’ve not seen him in years. Nor have I any wish to.”

“Is it our good Lord and Lady?”

Haldir’s deep violet eyes filled with unshed tears for a moment before he chased them away as he’d long taught himself. “Aye…”

Curious, she quietly interrogated, “What of them?”

“Iarwen…” he brokenly confessed, “I love my Lady as any elf should love their liege. But the love I bear for Celeborn… is less pure.”

“I see,” she answered, finally understanding. “And what can you do to remedy this?”

“Nothing,” he answered simply, now meeting her gaze evenly and coolly, having regained his air of remote indifference. “He is wed. The wheel has turned me to an empty path.”

“I see,” she repeated. “Then another difficult choice lies before you.”

Worry settled heavy on his brow as Haldir softly asked, “What do you mean?”

Iarwen looked to the fire, where the scroll had turned to ash. “Your Lord’s letter is a very specific request. He would like to share Mid-summer’s Eve again with The Dancer.”

As this new weight fell upon him, Haldir’s shining eyes closed as he leaned forward, his head falling into his hands as the clay mug dropped to the hearthrug with a muffled thump. Now it was Haldir’s turn to reply with, “I see.”

“That’s not all,” Iarwen warned.

Haldir looked up, his eyes begging from her some reprieve.

But she had none to give. “No veil.”

“I see,” Haldir repeated breathlessly as he again bowed his head, hair of flax falling to shield his face.

“No more hiding, Dir. Well?”

“Huh?”

Iarwen smiled gently, though he did not see it. “Yay or nay?” she asked. Her voice was kind. “I must send a reply, must I not?”

Haldir shook his head wordlessly before hands again came up to thread nervous fingers through braids. “I cannot answer this now,” he breathed harshly, a desperate edge to a voice weary with confusion and pain.

“Then sleep,” Iarwen instructed, rising to take Haldir’s arm and help him gain his feet. “Rest,” she soothed, steering him toward the guest room, “And think with a clear head on the morrow.”

He nodded sleepily, and when he reached the door, turned to face her. “Three days,” he vowed. “In three days, I will have my answer.”

***

Three days had passed, and the weather had not seen fit to improve. The sun still beat harshly down on the earth, and Iarwen worked hard in her garden, tending the herbs and spices and other weedy growths, thankful for the spring that continued to flow uninterrupted from the depths of the earth.

When a silent shadow fell upon her, she sat back on her heels, wiping earth-stained hands on a linen apron. She quirked a brow up at the March Warden.

Framed by the sun, he was only a silhouette in the light, and no expression could be seen on his face as he said in an emotionless voice, “I have decided.”


	10. Ever After

The heat was lessened on Lorien’s forest floor, where the canopy of summer leaves high above blocked out the sun. Still, the eternal light of Lorien retained its ethereal glow throughout.

Haldir took comfort in neither the relief of the shade nor the welcoming light, for he focused only on the task at hand, dashing at great speed through the forest: darting around the greatest trunks, leaping over rushing brooks, and moving as fast as his elven ability would allow. The Warden allowed the physical exhilaration to overwhelm any lingering doubts, and thought for a single moment that he liked nothing better than the pure joy of measuring the earth with his feet, feeling the air move past to playfully ruffle his uniform and hair, and grow breathless at the sheer delight of moving like a great stag through the silver-trunked forest.

At length, he approached the city, and did not slow his pace until he reached the white bridge that spanned a watery chasm and led to the great gates, open to the coming night. The city guards greeted him with a salute, hastily returned, and Haldir sped through past the great walls. Long before he reached the fountain, Haldir leapt up to grab a low hanging branch and took to the trees, taking the short cut he had learned in his youth to the palace.

He sprung upward higher and higher until he ran the length of the upper city with its white steps and silver ladders and rope walkways.

A few elves, had they listened closely enough, might have discerned the light footsteps that fell on the roofs of their covered telain as Haldir sped quickly along, only committing a minor trespassing offense in the process.

When he finally did reach the palace, he easily leapt a good fifteen feet from a sturdy branch to land soundlessly on the library roof. Taking a firm hold on its shale shingled edge, he knelt over to peer into the tall window at the long talan’s eastern end. As he had remembered from childhood romps, there wasn’t a soul to be seen in this quarter of the library at this hour, and Haldir swung himself in a neat flip over the eves to drop into a crouch behind some low shelving.

Holding still for the first time since he’d set out that morning, Haldir took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of dust and ink and leather bindings. For that one moment – one breath – he remained motionless. Then, he vaulted the shelf and flew through the twining library bookcases until he reached the great trunk of the supporting mallorn. Now, where would Celeborn be? Up, in his chambers? Or down, on the lower levels?

Spotting an elf ascending the stair, Haldir raised his hand in greeting. “Mae govannen, Counselor Siltaur! Tell me, where might I find the Lord Celeborn, for I’ve an urgent message to deliver?”

“Greetings, Haldir,” the friendly elf received him. “Celeborn retired to his chambers from a council meeting less than an hour ago; I’m sure he’s still there.”

“I thank you,” Haldir barely managed before leaping to the steps, taking them three at a time.

Up and up he went, past quarters and studies and long walking telain, until he reached a familiar white door, large and heavy, and carved in the likeness of twining flowers and vines. He shrugged off the nerves that seemed to settle like hovering vultures on his conscience. After withdrawing Iarwen’s answering scroll from his side satchel, he rapped sharply on the door.

“Come in,” he heard immediately in Celeborn’s rich, distinctive voice, and Haldir almost fumbled the silver doorknob in his haste. He entered, leaving the door open behind him as he bowed to Celeborn, who was seated at his work-desk with papers and quills scattered about, much in the same state as Haldir had seen it in a year before.

Haldir bowed again, as was his custom, despite the informal circumstances, and proffered the scroll as he did so. “I bring Iarwen’s response.”

Celeborn had turned, one hand on his knee, the other still holding a simple quill, at Haldir’s entrance, and he now looked upon the March Warden with bemusement on his kind face. Haldir stood a good five paces from him, silver-golden head bowed low. “Ah, good,” he acknowledged, watching Haldir try to control the pulse and breath that itched to race after his long run. “Bring it here, please.”

Haldir looked up, suddenly realizing the absurd distance he’d kept between them. A rose tint encroached onto his cheeks as he marched forward to hand over the scroll.

Celeborn smiled fondly, an amused – if slightly befuddled – light in his silver eyes, as he eagerly took the rolled parchment from a hand he did not notice was trembling.

Even though their fingers never touched, Haldir leapt back as if stung when the missive was snatched from his hands, and waited as Celeborn impatiently broke the seal to carefully read. Haldir watched as a small grin gave way to a broad, beautiful smile. It seemed as though Celeborn liked this news. Very much.

Celeborn continued his perusal, ignorant of Haldir, who waited awkwardly where he stood. Eventually, Celeborn rolled the parchment and set it aside. He turned to look at the Guardian. “Oh, I apologize for keeping you. You may go.”

Haldir performed another bow before quickly retreating.

He had pulled the door nearly shut when Celeborn called out. “Haldir!”

Eagerly, Haldir halted and pushed open the door to regard Celeborn over the threshold. “Yes Lord?”

“Please, if you see Iarwen, give her my thanks. And you and your brothers are welcome, of course, to forgo your duties to attend Byeltinyeh Feast as usual, though it will not be nearly so grand as the year past,” he said with a wink.

“Oh,” Haldir haltingly answered, “my thanks, Lord.”

He inclined his head, and pulled the door shut, fleeing the way he had come.

Forgoing food and rest, he exited the palace and the city, intent on resuming his duties at once, before he gave in to the insane urge to return to Celeborn’s quarters and destroy that damned bit of paper and explain that it was all some horrible mistake.

But it was too late to change his mind and he knew it.

***

“I’ve changed my mind.”

Iarwen looked up from her embroidery at Haldir’s outburst. When he had arrived, distinctly agitated, she had of course invited him in for tea. But now he sat there, his oddly colored eyes wide with fright, regarding her hopefully.

“Haldir. You must know there is nothing I can do about your fickleness.”

“I am not fickle! I merely… realized I’d committed myself to something I cannot possibly follow through on.”

“Well then,” she said, turning back to the fine violet velvet between her fingers; she embroidered a silver design into its hemming as she spoke. “I suggest The Dancer sends a letter to explain things. That, or you simply do not go, making myself out to be a liar, and you to be a coward.”

Haldir bristled. “I am not a coward,” he hissed.

Iarwen looked up once more. “Not in battle, certainly. But I’ve no doubt you are dearly afraid of revealing your heart. There is no shame in this, Haldir,” she said, lowering her green eyes to her work. “But you cannot hide your feelings forever. I think your decision was correct. And I think these new robes will look simply stunning for the occasion.”

Haldir threw up his hands, as if giving in to the inevitable. “Women!” he cursed.

Iarwen smiled. “You will go to him, then?”

Haldir sighed, pushing away the self-anger that had mingled with his growing fear and hateful doubts. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Iarwen stood, smiling happily down on him. “I’m sure it is for the best. Now, stand up so I can fit these properly.

Haldir stopped himself from grumbling and stood with his arms out to the sides, allowing Iarwen to spend the rest of the day fussing over him and clicking her tongue and smiling slyly when she thought he wasn’t looking.

***

Slowed by the heavy formal robes in a bundle over his shoulder, Haldir plodded toward the center watch-flet, where – if memory served – Orophin and Nimnarel should be on duty. Not long after he came within sight of the high talan, Haldir saw Sentry Nimnarel salute and give a clear signal.

He wearily returned the gesture and approached, leaving his belongings at the foot of the tall mallorn before ascending the thin rope ladder.

As soon as his head cleared the edge of the watch-flet, Haldir froze, his great violet eyes taking in the sight of two sentries, neither of which was Orophin. “Sentry Nimnarel,” he addressed.

She nodded her head. “Captain.”

“Sentry Tinasul.”

“Captain Haldir,” Tinasul said, bowing.

Haldir continued to stare at the two sentries.

Nimnarel tilted her head with concern. “Captain?”

Haldir quickly gathered his thoughts and climbed all the way up to stand, regarding his sentries closely. “I thought Orophin was assigned this shift,” Haldir curtly addressed Tinasul.

Nervous at Haldir’s cold manner, the sentry again bowed before his captain. “Yes sir, but he requested a roster transfer. Lieutenant Thinthoron switched our schedules at my offering.”

Still staring, Haldir did not speak for a moment. Then he said, “And do you know where Orophin is now?”

Tinasul and Nimnarel exchanged a look and then shrugged. “With Rumil?” Nimnarel suggested. “At the off-duty flet you share?”

“Yes,” Haldir nodded. “That would make sense.” He then stood a moment longer, lost in thought, before addressing them. “As you were,” he said with a salute, and then swiftly descended the rope to take his bag and head southwards toward the series of off-duty flets, one of which he and his brothers had long claimed as a second home.

***

These much more homey telain were set some miles inward from the Lorien border on all four quadrants, and were generally seen as a sort of home-away-from-home where sentries and guardians and wardens alike could retreat when off-duty for a few hours or days at a time. Many were outfitted with very pleasant furnishings, oftentimes with connected rooms, a stock of wine, shelves of old games, and other amenities.

The sons of Feagul had claimed such a flet, a tree-building complete with three separate sleeping quarters, a main room, an encircling balcony, and many other comforts they had added over the years.

Now, plagued by two days’ restless travel following several sleepless nights, Haldir was hardly in top form when he meandered toward the large talan; therefore, he did not hear the sounds emanating from it until he was halfway up the tree.

Haldir paused, listening to the soft grunts and groans and rhythmic creaking of what could possibly be floorboards. “Orophin,” he grumbled dangerously. “I swear if you snubbed your duty in favor of some lustful romp, you are going to be sorry…” Now given some focus for his emotion, Haldir gathered what was left of his energy to quickly scale the tree, dropping his bags on the balcony.

He entered the first room, a friendly place with great cushions for sitting, low tables for eating, and a fireplace at its center. There was no fire in this blasted summer heat, and Haldir ignored the general mess the room was in to tread over to Orophin’s door. Here, of course, the sounds were much louder, and Haldir need not guess that his coming had gone unnoticed.

This was nothing he hadn’t heard before, not with such a brother as Orophin, but fatigue and stress were quickly winning the battle over decorum, and Haldir had barely thought through his actions before banging a precursory knock on the door and throwing it open to step within. “Orophin! I thought I—-- Ah!!!” The shriek he let out could be heard for miles.

Orophin lay on his thin matt, his hands stretched above his head and tied to a hook on the open windowsill by a green sash. Rumil lay above him, between outstretched legs. Both were suitably naked and sweaty for the activities they had been engaged in when Haldir had so rudely interrupted them.

The brothers grinned sheepishly at the look of abstract horror on Haldir’s face as he dramatically clutched at his chest, where his heart beat in a wild rhythm. “Orophin! Rumil! If an elf could die of shock, you would have killed me this very moment!”

Orophin smiled. “If an elf could die of embarrassment, we could say the same.”

The younger brothers chuckled merrily, and Haldir had no choice but to slowly back away and shut the door behind him.

***

Three brothers sat on the edge of the flet, shoeless feet dangling off the edge, passing a bottle of wine between them.

“Only four days ago?” Haldir.

“Yeh.” Rumil. 

“Huh.” Haldir.

“So…” Orophin.

“Yeh.” Haldir.

Silence.

“The Dancer, then? That was you?” Orophin.

“Yeh.” Haldir.

“Huh.” Orophin.

“Yeh.” Haldir.

Silence.

“And you’re going to Celeborn?” Rumil.

“Yeh.” Haldir.

“Even though he hasn’t a clue it’s you?” Orophin.

“Yeh.” Haldir.

“Brave…” Rumil.

“If you choose to call it that.” Haldir.

Rumil chuckled, reaching behind him for two more bottles, which were swiftly uncorked and shared out. “To Byeltinyeh,” he said with a laugh.

“To your happiness,” Haldir said more soberly.

“To daft Dancers and damned brothers,” Orophin added.

They drank.

***

Haldir’s city flet was a close fit for three grown elves, but the brothers managed; Orophin sitting behind Haldir to carefully plait his flaxen hair as Rumil fussed over properly tying the silver belt and folding the lavender sleeves.

There was little conversation but for Rumil’s continued fussing and comments such as, “Iarwen is a fine seamstress, I’ll give her that,” and “Do stop moving Haldir, or your braids will be uneven,” and “Remember to stay calm, don’t get all panicky like you did last night.”

None of which, Haldir thought, was really helping.

But he let them fuss and fix and help, happy to have found true allies in his brothers. As Orophin finished the final knot, he spoke. “Why did you never tell us, Haldir, that you were a Dancer?”

Rumil paused his bustling about and Orophin tied off the final braid, both waiting with breath bated for an answer.

Haldir sighed. “There is much I should have told you,” he admitted. “I think… I sought to protect you, both my dear brothers.” He sighed again. “I feel old compared to you. I’m an age older than you, Orophin, and you are only a century Rumil’s senior.” He bowed his head. “I thought of you as my sons. I practically raised you both on my own. I never wanted to burden you with my secrets, my troubles.”

Rumil drew up his courage kneeling before Haldir where he sat – the picture of calm and ease – cross-legged in the center of the small room. “Do you promise not to hide from us anymore?”

Haldir smiled. “I do.”

Rumil released his breath and leaned over to warmly hug Haldir, who returned the rare embrace.

“Oh!” Orophin piped up, spoiling the moment. “Does that mean we get a our very own private performance?!”

Rumil shot him a dirty look and reached past Haldir to smack Orophin upside the head. “Ow!”

But Haldir only smiled. “If you wish.”

Intrigued, Rumil asked, “Really?”

Again, Haldir smiled. “If you ask nice enough. And if you stay well away from MY bed.”

“But we don’t have rooms in the city,” Orophin pouted.

Haldir grumbled. “It’s Byeltinyeh. You and Rumil could fuck in the streets and no one would bat an eyelash.” The brothers guffawed at Haldir’s language, and joined hands as their elder brother stood, straightening the lavender robes. “Please don’t consider that a suggestion,” he added as an afterthought. “If you can’t contain yourselves, I suppose my room shall have to suffer.”

Orophin snorted and couldn’t restrain his comment, “You call this a _room_? A bit generous, don’t you think?”

Haldir glared. “Remember. I’m your Captain. If this ROOM is not in PERFECT condition when I return, you can plan on leading very lonely marches on either end of the border for the next season!”

Rumil and Orophin quailed, though they knew Haldir would never be so cruel as to separate them. They also knew he was capable of much more unpleasant punishments if they truly did disobey his order.

“Right then,” he said, turning to survey the hole in the floor, which acted as the door. “I…” he hesitated. “I can’t do this.” He sat.

Rumil and Orophin exchanged glances. “Haldir,” the youngest said, moving to sit beside him on the low workbench. “You want to do this; you know you do.”

“But what if I am not what he…”

“Desires?” Orophin asked. He chuckled softly. “But you are. Lord Celeborn asked for The Dancer. And though you have attempted to hide it, even from yourself, that is a part of who you are. There is no doubt in my mind that he wants you as much as you want him. Besides, no one could turn you away!” He dropped a light kiss on Haldir’s temple, seating himself to the elf’s other side.

Between his brothers, Haldir attempted to regain his courage. “I do not question his… I am sorry,” he sobbed dryly, bending to hide his face in his hands.

Blue eyes widened and Rumil drew Haldir close as they both began to tremble. “Oh Haldir,” Rumil sighed, the burden of comprehension weighting his words. He rubbed comforting circles onto his back as he finally realized the extent of Haldir’s turmoil. “You are in love,” Rumil clarified. “Why did you not tell us?”

“You LOVE him?!” Orophin shouted. “You _love_ him?”

“You’re not helping!” Rumil hissed. He turned again to Haldir, drawing him close. “You do, don’t you? And you’re terrified.”

Before Haldir could speak, Orophin interrupted, surprisingly rational after his sudden outburst.   
“Nonsense. I stand by what I just said, and will elaborate: none could refuse you, Haldir, body or soul. I am sure Celeborn will see you as we do, and he will love what he sees.”

“I do not want him to see!” Haldir cried in a ragged scream as he stood, escaping from his brothers’ embraces. “I do not deserve him! I will give him what he wants, and that will be enough!”

Frightened at this sudden, passionate confession, Rumil and Orophin froze, staring with open concern at Haldir, who stood panting and outraged and absolutely distraught, near hysteria in his urgent anguish. “That *will* be enough,” he said. It was an order, it was a promise. It was a challenge to his brothers to defy his will.

They didn’t.

And Haldir again stood immobile, staring at the hole in the floor. “Well. I’m going.”

Rumil and Orophin stared.

Haldir stood.

Rumil and Orophin waited.

Haldir stood.

“You have to actually move,” Rumil finally suggested in a quiet voice, still shaken by Haldir’s unexpected outburst.

“Oh, right,” Haldir regrettably agreed, moving to slip through the hole and down the silver rope.

He dropped to his feet and looked up once more to see two pairs of eyes regarding him, one blue and one grey. “Good luck!” Rumil called with a weak smile and hesitant wave.

“You’ll need it!” Orophin added as Haldir set off through the trees. Toward the palace.

“I will at that,” he murmured in agreement, trying to suppress the racing of his heart and the threatening tears as he sped through the city in the direction of the revelry. In the direction of his fragile hope and unending love. To another night of gifting his body to the one who already owned his heart and did not even know it.

***

The fountain had stood here, on the open lawn, for as long as Haldir could remember, ever pouring forth its pure water, clear as crystal. Many lights in their lanterns hung about, shining white brilliance down upon the tumbling waters, which fell into a silver basin to murmur in a rippling stream away to the gates. Here, beneath the palace and all too near the welcoming hall, the noises of the festivities were close, and the sounds of singing and laughing permeated the air.   
 Still, none stood guard at the white ladders, none passed this way – on the ground – on the night of Byeltinyeh, when pleasure-filled moans already hung about the air… if one chose to listen close enough to hear them.

Haldir chose not to; in truth, the sounds of the night were lost to him as he leaned two hands upon the rim of the silver basin, fearfully regarding the reflection that wavered there. “How can I go to him? How can I be with him? How can I…”

“Hide from him?” A golden reflection appeared beside his own, rippling in the gentle flow of water. “For that is what you have been doing all these years, is it not, Captain Haldir?”

Haldir’s eyes sought the reflection of pale blue orbs, seeming to reflect starlight, even without stars visible beyond the high leaves, even in the shimmering reflection of the ever-changing water. “My Lady.”

Galadriel smiled, ever wise, ever sad. “You have managed to hide for a good long while. But no longer. I have seen your heart.”

Still staring at the flowing water, Haldir was shocked when the image was violently distorted for a fleeting moment, scattering the light until the gentle waves resumed their pattern. Only after a stunned moment did Haldir recognize the trail of wetness down his pale cheek reflecting back at him. The distortion had been a single salty tear. “I am sorry, my Lady,” he breathed. “I have tried… I have tried to stop this, but my heart… my heart…”

“Love cannot be stifled, or fettered, or changed. By will or prayer, yours or mine. Love cannot be stopped, Haldir. I am glad you know this now.”

“But why…?” His question fell to a whimper in the warm night air.

“Why what?” the Lady asked, eternally patient.

Another tear threatening, Haldir begged, “Why must it bring with it such pain?”

But to this, even Galadriel did not have an answer.

Despite his surprise, Haldir did not flinch when a warm hand settled on his own and the Lady moved beside him. “I cannot say. But it is my experience that these things take time to come. And to pass. It is a cycle, like the seasons, and the ages, reflected in all living things.”

“All but us,” Haldir inferred, “for we do not die. Not unless a great wound afflicts us. And our cycles of pain twist deeper. Our cycles of love and hate, hope and despair. You would say I’ve come to the bottom of my wheel, and it is time to rise again.”

Galadriel smiled.

“And in doing so, would trespass on your heart?” he asked.

“No, not on my heart,” she amended. “You know that, my friend. I only wish I could know a love so deep.”

“You would not wish it if it was not returned,” he vowed.

“Perhaps.”

“I have come to believe Fate is a wheel that does not turn in my favor.”

“Then I hope Fate shall soon prove you wrong.”

Both elves looked up when the sound of a brazen horn rung in the clear night eve. “The Witching Hour,” Galadriel observed.

“Then there is no time left to me.”

“Your time of hiding is over,” Galadriel agreed. “It is time to remove the veil you’ve worn all your life. The wheel spins without our guidance. And the Song ever sings in your blood and in your mind.”

“But what if I fear to remove that veil? What if the wheel spins too fast? What if the Song…” Haldir halted, taking a shuddering breath. “What if the Song is a curse and not a gift?”

“Look.” Galadriel pointed with her free hand to the basin. Haldir looked. He saw a beautiful elf woman, wise and ancient and eternally happy, eternally sad. He saw an elf, a warden in the foolish robes of a Lord, eyes overflowing with tears. He saw that the veil had long fallen, and could not be recovered.

“Go to your Fate,” the Lady advised, “with my blessing.”

“Your blessing?” Haldir asked, turning to face her for the first time.

“Aye. And with my love.”

Haldir nodded, finding no words. He brought her hand to clasp it tightly to his chest as he peered into her eyes, filled with the light of forgiveness. She spoke, never losing that smile, “Make him happy.”

“I shall try.”

***

Haldir stood before his lord’s chambers, enduring a final debate. His Lady’s blessings echoed in his ears. Iarwen’s portents, his brothers’ wishes. Echoes of his own dreams. And he did not know if his heart would survive what awaited him beyond this white, carven door.

Eventually, he stilled his thoughts, he calmed his mind, he tamed his emotions. And he raised a hand to knock.

“Come in.”

Haldir found he was not so composed as he thought. Unable to hide his anxiety, he shakily grasped the silver handle and turned. The door swung silently inward, and he crept within the candlelit room, closing the door behind him.

Oh the candles! Candles were everywhere, white and yellow and red wax dripping from a hundred dancing flames. Celeborn was not in sight, so Haldir turned to walk round the great talan, padding with light shoes over the well-planked floor, following the candles.

Breath stopped and Haldir froze at the sight of the elf in the bed. Celeborn sat beneath the sheets in a loose robe that teased with a bit of his exposed chest, and the gossamer curtains hung about him as he sipped a ruby red wine from a crystal flute.

He looked up, and silver eyes met Haldir’s, burning an intense gaze that could not be ignored.

The moment broke when the Lord spoke. “Haldir?” he asked with confusion. “Do you have some message for me?”

Blushing fiercely, Haldir bowed his head, taking in the sight of the violet robes he had so carefully attired himself in, a rich velvet ill-suited and ill-worn. Silks and satins. Ridiculous. And too many braids tapered down his back, restricting and uncomfortable. Heavy, like the robes. He answered, “No, my Lord.”

Celeborn’s heart filled with wonder. Confusion creased his brow. “Then why have you come?”

Faltering in his words, Haldir nervously said, “I believe you asked The Dancer to attend you this night.”

“I did,” the Lord confirmed, no less confused.

Haldir could not contain a slight laugh, tinged with an edge of hysteria. He cursed himself for every stupid thing he’d ever done, including this – no, no, _especially_ this – and bowing, he confessed. “He stands before you now.”

.

Celeborn’s jaw hung open. His silver eyes grew wide. He stared with unblinking shock at his visitor. “You…” he accused in a whisper.

Haldir’s heart broke in that hissed word. “Yes, ‘I,’” he confirmed in a low voice. He began to back away, stumbling over his robes even as he stumbled over his words. “I am sorry. If I am not to your liking, I will go…”

Seeing that escape was near, Celeborn leapt from the bed, angrily pushing the curtains aside, ignorant of shattering glass as the flute was dropped in his distracted haste, spattering the wine – like blood – across the white wooden planks, the white bed frame, and the bedside table. Haldir had turned, and now Celeborn raced round to confront the Guardian, blocking his path. “Haldir…” He seemed at a loss for words, watching as lost violet eyes peered blankly up at him. “Haldir,” his voice grew stronger. “I… am shocked. By all rights, I shouldn’t be, but,” Celeborn shook his head with wonder. “You deceived me quite well.” Before Haldir could defend himself, Celeborn continued, moving closer, forcing Haldir to take a step backward. “I don’t understand. Why did you never say anything?”

Haldir bravely met his eyes. “The Mystery,” was his simple answer.

Celeborn smiled gently. “That is not what I meant.”

Haldir did not answer, merely tilting his head in silent perplexity.

“I heard your words that morning,” Celeborn explained. “One year ago. I was on the edge of sleep when I heard quite clearly, ‘I love you, Celeborn.’”

.

Horrified, Haldir’s blush deepened. He bowed and staggered backward in some instinctive effort to escape. “I apologize.” The words came in a cracked, strained voice. “I thought you slept.”

Celeborn still grinned. “I think you mistake my meaning. I am not offended,” he spoke softly, sensing Haldir’s heart-felt distress.

“Then what is your meaning?” Haldir asked, capable only of a whisper.

“From the moment I heard your confession, I knew I felt the same.”

Violet eyes flashed up, dry lips parted in disbelief.

“But by the time I awoke, you were gone. I thought to search you out. I thought to damn myself. Sometimes I thought I’d dreamed it. I barely had the courage to send Iarwen that letter, and I have dreaded and longed for this moment for a fortnight, changing my mind a hundred times and regretting my actions minutes after I’d rejoiced them. You don’t know what havoc you have inflicted on my heart and mind.”

A pair of pearly tears fell from violet eyes. “I do know, for I have lived the same torment… But how can this be? How can this be real?”

“Oh it is real!” Celeborn said with a laugh, clasping Haldir’s arms as if afraid the elf would take flight. “The Dance, Haldir!” he reminded. “The effects of The Dance are profound and permanent. That one night bound us closer than I had dreamed possible. This past year, the magic we wove has tangled my heart, that cursed magic hiding what I should have seen all along…”

Celeborn lifted a hand to lay the pads of warm fingers against Haldir’s face, echoing Haldir’s own gesture from a year ago. “Those eyes…” A thumb brushed over dark lashes. “Those lips…” The same digit traced a full mouth. “Why did I never see it?”

Haldir trembled.

Another laugh. “You shiver at my touch?”

Haldir found his eyes had closed, and he opened them to meet Celeborn’s. Still overwhelmed by this new hope, this new turn of Fortune’s Wheel, he whispered. “Yes, I shiver at your touch. I shudder at your words. I quake every time your eyes meet mine.”

Celeborn closed his eyes at this intense admission. He tightly gripped Haldir’s biceps for stability as he swayed, head bowed. The Lord kept his head down as he professed, “I had always looked upon you in hopes… year after year, I wondered at you. Decades passed and we grew closer, you and I. But you ever kept your distance, your professional indifference. I cursed you for it and wondered if I would ever see what lay beyond your mask.”  Haldir supported his Lord by carefully gripping a firm waist. “It was no mask,” he defended. “I have never shown you a false face. But… my veil has shielded me well all my life. And I feared to lose it, even for you.”

Opening his eyes, Celeborn leaned close, slipping his arms about Haldir’s neck. “But the veil is gone now?”

“Aye. And fortune smiles on me at last. And the Song is alive in my veins.”

“Will you sing it to me?” Celeborn asked.

“Yes, but not tonight,” Haldir promised, finally finding a smile of his own. “We have shared love and passion, but not the two together. This night, I want to give both my body and my heart to the one I love.” Celeborn started when Haldir reached for his face and withdrew a finger stained with wetness. “I did not mean to make you cry,” Haldir said mournfully.

“These tears of joy are most welcome,” Celeborn soothed, “For they are a sign of our love. I can refuse you nothing, and want this more than anything. I want you, Haldir. Yes, body and heart. But only in return for my own.”

“Your faith in me extends so deep, as to trust me with this gift?” Haldir marveled.

“Of course.”

They smiled.

“May I kiss you, Haldir?”

A shuddering sigh proceeded Haldir’s “Of course.”

No veils between them. No words unsaid. They drew each other close, and kissed. It was not a long kiss or a deep kiss or a kiss to end all kisses, but it was undeniably loving and tender and filled with joy enough to overflow their mouths in laughter.

That was how they reverently unclothed each other, with tenderness and laughter. That was how they tumbled into a crimson-lined bed, with joy and laughter.

That was how they came together heart and body, with love and with unending laughter.

And that was how they remained together, for all time.

= = = = =

 The End


End file.
